THE  SCARLET  LETTER     See  page  JOb 


ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  EDITION. 
THE 

SCARLET    LETTER, 


AND 


THE  BLITHEDALE  ROMANCE. 


BY 


NATHANIEL  ,  HAWTHORNE. 


TWO  VOLUMES   IN  ONE. 


BOSTON :  " 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY. 
Cjje  Htoersifce  Pre0s, 


Copyright,  1^50,  1852, 
BY  NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

Copyright,  >8;8,  1880, 
BY  ROSE   HAWTHORNE   LATHROP. 


17* 


GIFT 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER, 


A    ROMANCE. 


M8781SG 


PREFACE 

TO   THE   SECOND  EDITION 


MUCH  to  the  author's  surprise,  and  (if  he  may  SL.J 
tio  without  additional  offence)  considerably  to  his 
amusement,  he  finds  that  his  sketch  of  official  life, 
introductory  to  THE  SCARLET  LETTER,  has  created 
an  unprecedented  excitement  in  the  respectable 
community  immediately  around  him.  It  could 
hardly  have  been  more  violent,  indeed,  had  he 
burned  down  the  Custom-House,  and  quenched  its 
last  smoking  ember  in  the  blood,  of  a  certain  ven 
erable  personage,  against  whom  he  is  supposed  to 
cherish  a  peculiar  malevolence.  As  the  public 
disapprobation  would  weigh  very  heavily  on  him, 
were  he  conscious  of  deserving  it,  the  author  begs 
leave  to  say,  that  he  has  carefully  read  over  the  in 
troductory  pages,  with  a  purpose  to  alter  or  expunge 
whatever  might  be  found  amiss,  and  to  make  the 
best  reparation  in  his  power  for  the  atrocities  of 
which  he  has  been  adjudged  guilty.  But  it 
appears  to  him,  that  the  only  remarkable  features 
of  the  sketch  are  its  frank  and  genuine  good- 


,V  PREFACE. 

humor,  and  the  general  accuracy  with  which  ae 
has  conveyed  his  sincere  impressions  of  the  char 
acters  therein  described.  As  to  enmity,  or  ill- 
feeling  of  any  kind,  personal  or  political,  he 
utterly  disclaims  such  motives.  The  sketch 
might,  perhaps,  have  been  wholly  omitted,  with 
out  loss  to  the  public  or  detriment  to  the  book; 
but,  having  undertaken  to  write  it,  he  conceives 
that  it  could  not  have  been  done  in  a  better  or  a 
kindlier  spirit,  nor,  so  far  as  his  abilities  availed, 
w  ith  a  livelier  effect  of  truth. 

The  author  is  constrained,  therefore,  to  repub- 
lish  his  introductory  sketch  without  the  change  of 
a  word. 

SALEM,  March  30,  1850. 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

THE  CUSTOMHOUSE.  —  INTHODUCTOET  -  .......       .     1 


I.  —  THE  PRISON-DOG* « 63 

II.  —  THE  MAREET-PLACI .   .    53 

III.  —  THE  RECO&NITIOH 68 

IV.  —  THE  INTERVIEW     , bfl 

V.  —  HESTER  AT  HER  NESPLX   . 89 

VI.  —  PEARL .    .  101 

VII.— THE  GOVERNOR'S  HALL 114 

VIII.— THE  ELF-CHILD  AND  THE  MnnsTii        123 

IX.  — THE  LEECH 135 

X.  —  THE  LEECH  AND  HIS  PATIENT 148 

XI.  —  THE  INTERIOR  or  A  HEART 161 

XII.  —  THE  MINISTER'S  VI^IL 170 

XIII.  —  ANOTHER  VIEW  OF  HESTER 184 

XIV.  —  HESTER  AND  THE  PHYSICIAN 195 

XV.  —  HESTER  AND  PEARL 204 

XVI.  — A  FOREST  WALK 213 

XVII.  — THE  PASTOR  AND  HIS  PARISHIOKBE 221 

XVIII.  —  A  FLOOD  OF  SUNSHINE ,   .   .  233 

XIX. —  THE  CHILI  AT  THE  BR-»OK  SIDE    .   .   .  .       ,   .   ,  24] 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XX.  —  THE  MINISTER  IN  A  MAZE 250 

XXI. —  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  HOLIDAY 264 

XXII.  —  THE  PROCESSION 276 

XXIII.  —  THE  REVELATION  or  THE  SCARLET  LETTER  289 

XXIV.  —  CONCLUSION ,     ,    ,  304 


THE  CUSTOM-HOUSE. 

INTRODUCTORY  TO  "THE  SCARLET  LETTER. " 


IT  is  a  little  remarkable,  that  —  though  disinclined  to 
talk  overmuch  of  myself  and  my  affairs  at  the  fireside, 
and  to  my  personal  friends  —  an  autobiographical  im-* 
puke  should  twice  in  my  life  have  taken  possession  of 
me,  in  addressing  the  public.  The  first  time  was  three 
or  four  years  since,  when  1  favored  the  reader  —  inex 
cusably,  and  for  no  earthly  reason,  that  either  the  in 
dulgent  reader  or  the  intrusive  author  could  imagine  — 
with  a  description  of  my  way  of  life  in  the  deep  qui 
etude  of  an  Old  Manse.  And  i-ow — because,  beyond 
my  deserts,  I  was  happy  enougx.  to  find  a  listener  or 
two  on  the  former  occasion  —  I  again  seize  the  public  by 
the  button,  and  talk  of  my  three  years'  experience  in  a 
Custom-House.  The  example  of  the  famous  "P.  P., 
Clerk  of  this  Parish,"  was  never  more  faithfully  fol 
lowed.  The  truth  seems  to  be,  however,  that,  when  he 
casts  his  leaves  forth  upon  the  wind,  the  author  addresses, 
not  the  many  who  will  fling  aside  his  volume,  or  never 
take  it  up,  but  the  few  who  will  understand  him,  better 
than  most  of  his  schoolmates  or  hiemates.  Some  au« 
Ihors,  indeed,  do  far  more  than  this,  and  indulge  them 
1 


THE    SCARLET    LEI  fER. 

in  such  confidential  depths  of  revelation  as  :uuld 
fittingly  be  addressed,  only  and  exclusively,  to  the  one 
heart  and  mind  of  perfect  sympathy ;  as  if  the  printed 
book,  thrown  at  large  on  the  wide  world,  were  certain  to 
find  out  the  divided  segment  of  the  writer's  own  nature, 
and  complete  his  circle  of  existence  .by  bringing  him  into 
communion  with  it.  It  is  -scarcely  decorous,  however, 
to  speak  all,  even  where  we  speak  impersonally.  But, 
as  thoughts  are  frozen  and  utterance  benumbed,  unless 
the  speaker  stand  in  some  true  relation  with  his  au 
dience,  it  may  be  pardonable  to  imagine  that  a  friend, 
a  kind  and  apprehensive,  though  not  the  closest  friend, 
is  listening  to  our  talk  ;  and  then,  a  native  reserve  being 
thawed  by  this  genial  consciousness,  we  may  prate  of 
the  circumstances  that  lie  around  us,  and  even  of  ourself, 
but  still  keep  the  inmost  Me  behind  its  veil.  To  this 
extent,  and  within  these  limits,  an  author,  methinks,  may 
be  autobiographical,  without  violating  either  the  reader's 
rights  or  his  own. 

It  will  be  seen,  likewise,  that  this  Custom-House 
sketch  has  a  certain  propriety,  of  a  kind  always  recog 
nized  in  literature,  as  explaining  how  a  large  portion  of 
the  following  pages  came  into  my  possession,  and  as 
offering  proofs  of  the  authenticity  of  a  narrative  therein 
contained.  This,  in  fact,  —  a  desire  to  put  myself  in 
my  true  position  as  editor,  or  very  little  more,  of  the 
most  prolix  among  the  tales  that  make  up  my  volume , 
—  'his,  and  no  other,  is  my  true  reason  for  assuming  a 
personal  relation  with  the  public.  In  accomplishing  th« 
main  purpose,  it  has  appeared  allowable,  by  a  few  extra 
touches,  to  give  a  faint  representation  of  a  mode  of  lifp 
not  heretofore  described,  together  with  some  of  tire  chai 


Tffic  ctrsTtnr-HoosE.  3 

\cters  that  move  in  it,  among  whom  the  authoi   liap« 
pened  to  make  one. 

In  my  native  town  of  Salem,  at  the  head  of  what, 
half  a  century  ago,  in  the  days  of  old  King  Derby,  was 
a  bustling  wharf,  —  but  which  is  now  burdened  with 
decayed  wooden  warehouses,  and  exhibits  few  or  no 
symptoms  of  commercial  life  ;  except,  perhaps,  a  bark  or 
brig,  half-way  down  its  melancholy  length,  discharging 
hides  ;  or,  nearer  at  hand,  a  Nova  Scotia  schooner,  pitch 
ing  out  her  cargo  of  fire-wood,  —  at  the  head,  I  say, 
of  this  dilapidated  wharf,  which  the  tide  often  overflows, 
and  along  which,  at  the  base  and  in  the  rear  of  the  row 
of  buildings,  the  track  of  many  languid  years  is  seen  in 
a  border  of  unthrifty  grass,  —  here,  with  a  view  from  its 
front  windows  adown  this  not  very  enlivening  prospect, 
and  thence  across  the  harbor,  stands  a  spacious  edifice 
of  brick.  From  the  loftiest  point  of  its  roof,  during  pre 
cisely  three  and  a  half  hours  of  each  forenoon,  floats  or 
droops,  in  breeze  or  calm,  the  banner  of  the  republic ) 
but  with  the  thirteen  stripes  turned  vertically,  instead  of 
horizontally,  and  thus  indicating  that  a  civil,  and  not  a 
military  post  of  Uncle  Sam's  government,  is  here  estab 
lished.  Its  front  is  ornamented  with  a  portico  of  half  a 
dozen  wooden  pillars,  supporting  a  balcony,  beneath 
which  a  flight  of  wide  granite  steps  descends  towards  the 
street.  Over  the  entrance  hovers  an  enormous  specimen 
of  the  American  eagle,  with  outspread  wings,  a  shield 
before  her  breast,  and,  if  I  recollect  aright,  a  bunch  of 
intermingled  thunderbolts  and  barbed  arrmvs  in  each 
claw.  With,  the  customary  infirmity  of  temper  that 
sharaclorizes  this  unhappy  fowl,  she  appears,  by  th« 


THE    SCARLET   LETTER. 


fierceness  of  her  beak  and  eye,  and  the  general  trucu 
lency  of  her  attitude,  to  threaten  mischief  to  the  inoffen 
sive  community;  and  especially  to  warn  all  citizens, 
careful  of  their  safety,  against  intruding  on  the  premises 
which  she  overshadows  with  her  wings.  Nevertheless, 
vixenly  as  she  looks,  many  people  are  seeking,  at  this 
very  moment,  to  shelter  themselves  under  the  wing  of 
the  federal  eagle ;  imagining,  I  presume,  that  her  bosom 
has  all  the  softness  and  snugness  of  an  eider-down  pil 
low.  But  she  has  no  great  tenderness,  even  in  her  best 
of  moods,  and,  sooner  or  later,  —  oftener  .soon  than  late, 

—  is  apt  to  fling  off  her  nestlings,  with  a  scratch  of  her 
claw,  a  dab  of  her  beak,  or  a  rankling  wound  from  her 
barbed  a; rows. 

The  pavement  round  about  the  above-described  edifice 

—  which  we  may  as  well  name  at  once  as  the  Custom- 
House  of  the  port  —  has  grass  enough  growing  in  its 
chinks  to  show  that  it  has  not,  of  late  days,  been  worn 
by  any  multitudinous  resort  of  business.    In  some  months 
of  the  year,  however,  there  often  chances  a  forenoon  when 
affairs  move  onward  with  a  livelier  tread.     Such  occa 
sions  might  remind  the  elderly  citizen  of  that  period 
before  the  last  war  with  England,  when  Salem  was  a 
Dort  by  itself ;  not  scorned,  as  she  is  now,  by  her  own 
merchants  and  ship-owners,  who  permit  her  wharves  to 
srumble  to  ruin,  while  their  ventures  go  to  swell,  need 
lessly  and  imperceptibly,  the  mighty  flood  of  commerce 
at  New  York  or  Boston.     On  some  such  morning,  when 
three  or  four  vessels  happen  to  have  arrived  at  once,  — 
usually  from  Africa  or  South  America,  —  or  to  be  on  the 
verge  cf  their  departure  thitherward,  there  is  a  sound 
of  frequent  feet,  passing  briskly  up  and  down  thv>  granite 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  B 

steps.  Here,  before  his  own  wife  has  greeted  him,  you 
may  greet  the  sea-  flushed  ship-master,  just  in  port,  with 
his  vessel's  papers  under  his  arm,  in  a  tarnished  tin  box. 
Here,  too,  comes  his  o\vr\er,  cheerful  or  sombre,  gracious 
or  in  the  sulks,  accordingly  as  his  scheme  of  the  now 
accomplished  voyage  has  beer,  realized  in  merchandise 
that  will  readily  be  turned  to  gold,  or  has  buried  him 
under  a  bulk  of  incommodities,  such  as  nobody  wiL  care 
to  rid  him  of  Here,  likewise,  —  the  germ  of  the  wrin 
kle-browed,  grizzly-bearded,  care-worn  merchant,  —  we 
have  the  smart  young  clerk,  who  gets  the  taste  of  traffic 
as  a  wolf-cub  does  of  blood,  and  already  sends  adven 
tures  in  his  master's  ships,  when  he  had  better  be  sailing 
mimic-boats  upon  a  mill-pond.  Another  figure  in  the 
scene  is  the  outward-bound  sailor  in  quest  of  a  protec 
tion ;  or  the  recently  arrived  one,  pale  and  feeble,  seek 
ing  a  passport  to  the  hospital.  Nor  must  we  forget  th  . 
captains  of  the  rusty  little  schooners  that  bring  fire-wo ;. 
from  the  British  provinces;  a  rough-looking  set  of  tar 
paulins,  without  the  alertness  of  the  Yankee  aspect,  bui 
contributing  an  item  of  no  slight  importance  to  OUT 
decaying  trade. 

Cluster  all  these  individuals  together,  as  they  some 
times  were,  with  other  miscellaneous  ones  to  diversify 
the  group,  and,  for  the  time  being,  it  made  the  Custcm- 
House  a  stirring  scene.  More  frequently,  however,  on 
ascending  the  steps,  you  would  discern  —  in  the  entry, 
if  it  were  summer  time,  or  in  their  appropriate  rooms, 
if  wintry  or  inclement  weather  —  a  row  of  venerable 
figures,  sitting  in  old-fashioned  chairs,  which  were  tipped 
on  their  hind  legs  back  against  the  wall.  Oftentimes 
they  wers  asleep,  but  occasionally  might  be  heard  talk- 


O  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

vng  together,  'n  voices  between  speech  and  a  snore,  and 
with  that  lark  of  energy  that  distinguishes  the  occupants 
of  alms-houses,  and  all  other  human  beings  who  depend 
for  subsistence  on  charity,  on  monopolized  labor,  or  any 
thing  else  but  their  own  independent  exertions.  These 
pld  gentlemen  —  seated,  like  Matthew,  at  the  receipt  of 
customs,  but  not  very  liable  to  be  summoned  thence, 
like  him,  tor  apostolic  errands  —  were  Custom-House 
officers. 

Furthermore,  on  the  left  hand  as  you  enter  the  front 
door,  is  a  certain  room  or  office,  about  fifteen  feet  square, 
and  of  a  lofty  height;  with  two  of  its  arched  windows 
commanding  a  view  of  the  aforesaid  dilapidated  wharf 
and  the  third  looking  across  a  narrow  lane,  and  along  a 
portion  of  Derby-street.  All  three  give  glimpses  of  the 
shops  of  grocers,  block-makers,  slop-sellers,  and  ship- 
chandlers  ;  around  the  doors  of  which  are  generally  to 
be  seen,  laughing  and  gossiping,  clusters  of  old  salts> 
and  such  other  wharf-rats  as  haunt  the  Wapping  of  a 
seaport.  The  room  itself  is  cobwebbed,  and  dingy  with 
old  paint ;  its  floor  is  strewn  with  gray  sand,  in  a 
fashion  that  has  elsewhere  fallen  into  long  disuse;  and 
it  is  easy  to  conclude,  from  the  general  slovenliness  of 
the  place,  that  this  is  a  sanctuary  into  which  woman 
kind,  with  her  tools  of  magic,  the  broom  and  mop,  has 
very  infrequent  access.  In  the  way  of  furniture,  there 
is  i  stove  with  a  voluminous  funnel ;  an  old  pine  desk, 
with  a  three-legged  stool  beside  it ;  two  or  three  wooden- 
bottom  chairs,  exceedingly  decrepit  and  infirm  ;  and  — 
not  to  forget  the  library  —  on  some  shelves,  a  score  oy 
two  ol  volumes  of  the  Acts  of  Congress,  and  a  bulky 
Digest  of  the  Revenue  Laws.  A  tin  pipe  ascends  through 


THE    CrjSTOM-HOOSE.  1 

the  ceiling,  and  forms  a  medium  of  vocal  communication 
with  other  parts  of  the  edifice.  And  here,  some  six 
montns  ago,  —  pacing  from  corner  to  corner,  or  lounging 
on  the  long-legged  stool,  with  his  elbow  on  the  desk, 
and  his  eyes  wandering  up  and  down  the  columnj  of 
the  morning  newspaper,  —  you  might  have  recognized, 
honored  reader,  the  same  individual  who  welcomed  you 
into  his  cheery  little  study,  where  the  sunshine  glim 
mered  so  pleasantly  through  the  willow  branches,  on  the 
western  side  of  the  Old  Manse.  But  now.  should  you 
go  thither  to  seek  him,  you  would  inquire  in  vain  for  the 
Locofoco  Surveyor.  The  besom  of  reform  has  swept 
him  out  of  office ;  and  a  worthier  successor  wears  his 
dignity,  and  pockets  his  emoluments. 

This  old  town  of  Salem  —  my  native  place,  though  J 
have  dwelt  much  away  from  it,  both  in  boyhood  and 
maturer  years  —  possesses,  or  did  possess,  a  hold  on  my 
affections,  the  force  of  which  I  have  never  realized  dur« 
ing  my  seasons  of  actual  residence  here.  Indeed,  so  fat 
an  its  physical  aspect  is  concerned,  with  its  flat,  unvaried 
surface,  covered  chiefly  with  wooden  houses,  few  or  none 
of  which  pretend  to  architectural  beauty,  —  its  irregu 
larity,  which  is  neither  picturesque  nor  quaint,  but  only 
tarns,  —  its  long  and  lazy  street,  lounging  wearisomely 
\hrough  the  whole  extent  of  the  peninsula,  with  Gallows 
Hill  and  New  Guinea  at  one  end,  and  a  view  of  the 
alms-house  at  the  other,  —  such  being  the  features  of 
my  native  town,  it  would  be  quite  as  reasonable  to  form 
a  sentimental  attachment  to  a  disarranged  checker-board. 
And  yet,  though  invariably  happiest  elsewhere,  there  is 
wtthin  me  a  feeling  for  old  Salem,  which,  in  lack  of  a 
better  phrase,  I  must  be  content  to  call  affection.  The 


8  THE    SCARLET    LETTEfc. 

sentiment  i'j  piobably  assignable  to  the  deep  ana  aged 
roots  which  my  family  has  struck  into  the  soil.  It  is 
now  nearly  two  centuries  and  a  quarter  since  the  origi 
nal  Briton,  the  earliest  emigrant  of  my  name,  made  his 
appearance  in  the  wild  and  forest-bordered  settlement, 
which  has  since  become  a  city.  And  here  his  descend 
ants  have  been  born  and  died,  and  have  mingled  their 
earthy  "substance  with  the  soil ;  until  no  small  portion 
of  it  must  necessarily  be  akin  to  the  mortal  frame  where 
with,  for  a  little  while,  I  walk  the  streets.  In  part,  there 
fore,  the  attachment  which  I  speak  of  is  the  mere  sensu 
ous  sympathy  of  dust  for  dust.  Few  of  my  countrymen 
can  know  what  it  is  ;  nor,  as  frequent  transplantation  is 
perhaps  better  for  the  stock,  need  they  consider  it  desir 
able  to  know. 

But  the  sentiment  has  likewise  its  moral  quality.  The 
figure  of  that  first  ancestor,  invested  by  family  tradition 
ivith  a  dim  and  dusky  grandeur,  was  present  to  my  boy 
ish  imagination,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  It  still 
haunts  me,  and  induces  a  sort  of  home-feeling  with  the 
past,  which  I  scarcely  claim  in  reference  to  the  present 
phase  of  the  town.  I  seem  to  have  a  stronger  claim  to 
i  residence  here  on  account  of  this  grave,  bearded,  sable- 
floaked  and  steeple-crowned  progenitor,  —  who  came  so 
early,  with  his  Bible  and  his  sword,  and  trode  the  un 
worn  street  with  such  a  stately  port,  and  made  so  large 
a  figure,  as  a  man  of  war  and  peace,  —  a  stronger  claim 
than  for  myself,  whose  name  is  seldom  heard  and  my 
fac3  hardly  known.  He  was  a  soldier,  legislator,  judge' 
he  was  a  ruler  in  the  Church  :  he  had  all  the  Puritanic 
traits,  both  good  and  evil.  He  was  likewise  a  bettei 
ess  the  Qunkf.is,  who  have  remem 


THE    CUSTOM-HJUSK.  b 

bered  him  m  their  histories,  and  relate  an  incident  of 
his  hard  seventy  towards  a  woman  of  their  sect,  which 
will  last  longer,  it  is  to  be  feared,  than  any  record  of  his 
Detter  deeds,  although  these  were  many.  His  son,  too, 
inherited  the  persecuting  spirit,  and  made  himself  so 
conspicuous  in  the  martyrdom  of  the  witches,  that  then 
blood  may  fairly  be  said  to  have  left  a  stain  upon  him. 
So  deep  a  stain,  indeed,  that  his  old  dry  bones,  in  the 
Charter-street  burial-ground,  must  still  retain  it,  if  they 
have  not  crumbled  utterly  to  dust !  I  know  not  whether 
these  ancestors  of  mine  bethought  themselves  to  repent, 
and  ask  pardon  of  heaven  for  their  cruelties ;  or  whether 
they  are  now  groaning  under  the  heavy  consequences 
of  them,  in  another  state  of  being.  At  all  events,  I,  the 
present  writer,  as  their  representative,  hereby  take  shame 
upon  myself  for  their  sakes,  and  pray  that  any  curse 
incurred  by  them  —  as  I  have  heard,  and  as  the  dreary 
and  unprosperous  condition  of  the  race,  for  many  a  long 
year  back,  would  argue  to  exist  —  may  be  now  and 
henceforth  removed. 

Doubtless,  however,  either  of  these  stern  and  black 
crowed  Puritans  would  have  thought  it  quite  a  suffi 
cient  retribution  for  his  sins,  that,  after  so  )ong  a  lapse 
of  years,  the  old  trunk  of  the  family  tree,  with  so  much 
venerable  moss  upon  it,  should  have  borne,  as  its  top 
most  bough,  an  idler  like  myself.  No  aim,  that  I  have 
ever  cherished,  would  they  recognize  as  laudable;  no 
success  of  mine  —  if  my  life,  beyond  its  domestic  scope, 
had  ever  been  brightened  by  success  —  would  they  deem 
otherwise  than  worthless,  if  not  positively  disgraceful, 
"  What  is  he  ?  "  murmurs  one  gray  shadow  of  my  fore 
father  to  the  other.  "  A  writer  of  story-books  !  What 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

kind  of  a  business  in  life,— what  mode  of  glorifying 
brod,  or  being  serviceable  to  mankind  in  his  day  and 
generation,  —  may  that  be  ?  Why,  the  degenerate  fel- 
i'ow  might  as  well  have  been  a  fiddler ! "  Such  are  the 
compliments  bandied  between  my  great-grandsires  and 
myself,  across  the  gulf  of  time !  And  yet,  let  them  scoru 
me  as  they  will,  strong  traits  of  their  nature  have  inter 
twined  themselves  with  mine. 

Planted  deep,  in  the  town's  earliest  infancy  and  child 
hood,  by  these  two  earnest  and  energetic  men,  the  race 
has  ever  since  subsisted  here ;  always,  too,  in  respecta 
bility;  never,  so  far  as  I  have  known,  disgraced  by  a 
single  unworthy  member ;  but  seldom  or  never,  on  the 
other  hand,  after  the  first  two  generations,  performing 
any  memorable  deed,  or  so  much  as  putting  forward  a 
claim  to  public  notice.  Gradually,  they  have  sunk 
ilmost  out  of  sight ;  as  old  houses,  here  and  there  about 
.he  streets,  get  covered  half-way  to  the  eaves  by  the 
accumulation  of  new  soil.  From  father  to  son,  for  above 
a  hundred  years,  they  followed  the  sea  ;  a  gray-headed 
shipmaster,  in  each  generation,  retiring  from  the  quarter 
deck  to  the  homestead,  while  a  boy  of  fourteen  took  the 
hereditary  place  before  the  mast,  confronting  the  salt 
spray  and  the  gale,  which  had  blustered  against  his  sire 
and  grandsire.  The  boy,  also,  in  due  time,  passed 
from  the  forecastle  to  the  cabin,  spent  a  tempestuous 
manhood,  and  returned  from  his  world-wanderings,  to 
grow  old,  and  die,  and  mingle  his  dust  with  the  natal 
earth.  This  long  connection  of  a  family  with  one  spot, 
as  its  place  of  birth  and  burial,  creates  a  kindred  between 
the  human  being  and  the  locality,  quite  independent  of 
*ny  charm  in  the  scenery  or  moral  circumstances  tfnf 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  11 

surround  him.  It  is  not  love,  but  instinct.  The  new 
inhabitant  —  who  came  himself  from  a  foreign  land,  01 
whose  father  or  grandfather  came  —  has  little  claim  vo 
bo  called  a  Salemite ;  he  has  no  conception  of  the  oyster- 
uk*1  tenacity  with  which  an  old  settler,  over  whom  his 
third  century  is  creeping,  clings  to  the  spot  wh(  re  his 
successive  generations  have  been  imbedded.  It  is  no 
matter  that  the  place  is  joyless  for  him ;  that  he  is  weary 
of  the  old  wooden  houses,  the  mud  and  dust,  the  dead 
level  of  site  and  sentiment,  the  chill  east  wind,  and  the 
chillest  of  social  atmospheres ;  —  all  these,  and  whatever 
faults  besides  he  may  see  or  imagine,  are  nothing  to  the 
purposo;  The  spell  survives,  and  just  as  powerfully  as 
if  the  natal  spot  were  an  earthly  paradise.  So  has  it* 
been  in  my  case.  I  felt  it  almost  as  a  destiny  to  make 
Salem  my  home  ;  so  that  the  mould  of  features  and  cast 
of  character  which  had  all  along  been  familiar  here  — 
ever,  as  one  representative  of  the  race  lay  down  in  his 
grave,  another  assuming,  as  it  were,  his  sentry-march 
along  the  main  street  —  might"  still  in  my  little  day  be 
seen  and  recognized  in  the  old  town.  Nevertheless,  this 
very  sentiment  is  an  evidence  that  the  connection,  which 
has  become  an  unhealthy  one,  should  at  least  be  severed 
Human  nature  will  not  flourish,  any  more  than  a  potato, 
tf  it  be  planted  and  replanted,  for  too  long  a  series  of 
generations,  in  the  same  worn-out  soil.  My  children 
nave  had  other  birthplaces,  and,  so  far  as  their  fortunes 
may  be  within  my  control,  shall  strike  their  roots  into 
unaccustomed  earth. 

On  emerging  from  the  Old  Manse,  it  was  chiefly  this 
strange,  iudolent,  unjoyous  attachment  for  my  native 
town,  that  brought  me  to  fill  a  place  in  Uncle  SaraV 


12 


THH    SCARLET    LETTER. 


biick  edifice,  when  I  might  as  well,  or  better,  have  gon«t 
somewhere  else.  My  doom  was  on  me.  It  was  not  the 
first  time,  nor  the  second,  that  I  had  gone  away,  —  as  it 
seemed,  permanently,  —  but  yet  returned,  .ike  the  bad 
half-penny;  or  as  if  Salem  were  for  me  the  inevitable 
centre  of  the  universe.  So,  one  fine  morning,  I  ascended 
ihe  flight  of  granite  steps,  with  the  President's  commis 
sion  in  my  pocket,  and  was  introduced  to  the  corps  ot 
gentlemen  who  were  to  aid  me  in  my  weighty  responsi 
bility,  as  chief  executive  officer  of  the  Custom-House. 

I  doubt  greatly — or,  rather,  I  do  not  doubt  at  all  — 
whether  any  public  functionary  of  the  United  States, 
either  in  the  civil  or  military  line,  has  ever  had  such  o 
patriarchal  body  of  veterans  under  his  orders  as  myself. 
The  whereabouts  of  the  Oldest  Inhabitant  was  at  once 
settled,  when  I  looked  at  them.  For  upwards  of  twenty 
years  before  this  epoch,  the  independent  position  of  the 
Collector  had  kept  the  Salem  Custom-House  out  of  the 
whirlpool  of  political  vicissitude,  which  makes  the  tenure 
of  office  generally  so  fragile.  A  soldier,  —  New  Eng 
land's  most  distinguished  soldier,  —  he  stood  firmly  on 
the  pedestal  of  his  gallant  services ;  and,  himself  secure 
in  the  wise  liberality  of  the  successive  administrations 
through  which  he  had  held  office,  he  had  been  the  safety 
of  his  subordinates  in  many  an  hour  of  danger  and  heart- 
quake.  General  Miller  was  radically  conservative ;  a 
mar.  over  whose  kindly  nature  habit  had  no  slight  influ 
ence  •  attaching  himself  strongly  to  familiar  faces,  and 
with  difficulty  moved  to  change,  even  when  change 
might  have  brought  unquestionable  improvement.  Thus, 
on  taking  charge  of  my  department,  I  found  few  but  aged 
non  They  were  ancient  sea-capta  ns,  for  the  most  part 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  13 

who.  after  being  tost  on  every  sea, and  stancLn,r  up  styr- 
dily  against  life's  tempestuous  blast,  had  finally  drifted 
into  this  quiet  nook ;  where,  uith  little  to  disturb  them, 
except  the  periodical  terrors  of  a  Presidential  election, 
they  one  and  all  acquired  a  new  lease  of  existence. 
Though  by  no  mean?  less  liable  than  their  fellow-men 
to  age  and  infirmity,  tney  had  evidently  some  talisman 
or  other  that  kept  death  at  bay.  Two  or  three  of  their 
number,  as  I  was  assured,  being  gouty  and  rheumatic, 
or  perhaps  bed-ridden,  never  dreamed  of  making  theii 
appearance  at  the  Custom-House,  during  a  large  part  of 
the  year ;  but,  after  a  torpid  winter,  would  creep  out 
into  the  warm  sunshine  of  May  or  June,  go  lazily  about 
what  they  termed  duty,  and,  at  their  own  leisure  and 
convenience,  betake  themselves  to  bed  again.  I  must 
plead  guilty  to  the  charge  of  abbreviating  the  official 
breath  of  more  than  one  of  these  venerable  servants  of 
the  republic.  They  were  allowed,  on  my  representation, 
to  rest  from  their  arduous  labors,  and  soon  afterwards 
- — as  if  their  sole  principle  of  life  had  been  zeal  for  their 
country's  service;  as  I  verily  believe  it  was  —  with 
drew  to  a  better  world.  It  is  a  pious  consolation  to  me, 
that,  throu^h--j^_iiiterferejice>.-a_-.sufficient  space  was 
allowed  them  for  repentance  of  the  evil  and  corrupt  prac- 
tices,  into  whJ£hT-aa_a.  matter  of  course,  every  Custom-. 
House  officer  must  be  supposed  to  fal1.  Neither  the 
front  nor  the 'BaclT entrance  of  the  Custom-House  opens 
nn  the  road  to  Paradise. 

The  greater  part  of  my  officers  were  Whigs.  It  was 
well  for  their  venerable  brotherhood  that  the  new  Sur 
veyor  was  not  a  politician,  and  though  a  faithful  Demo 
crat  in  principle,  neither  received  nor  held  his  offk« 


i4  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

wiih  Bny.  reference  to  political  serv'ces.  Haa  it  beet, 
otherwise,  — had  an  active  politician  been  put  Jito  this 
influential  post,  to  assume  the  easy  task  of  making 
head  against  a  Whig  Collector,  whose  infirmities  with 
held  him  from  the  personal  administration  of  his  office, 
—  hardly  a  man  of  the  old  corps  would  have  drawn 
the  breath  of  official  life,  within  a  month  after  the  exter 
minating  angel  had  come  up  the  Custdm-House  steps. 
According  to  the  received  code  in  such  matters,  it 
would  have  been  nothing  short  of  duty,  in  a  politician, 
to  bring  every  one  of  those  white  heads  under  the  axe 
of  the  guillotine.  It  was  plain  enough  to  discern, 
that  the  old  fellows  dreaded  some  such  discourtesy  af 
my  hands.  It  pained,  and  at  the  same  time  amused 
me,  to  behold  the  terrors  that  attended  my  advent ;  to 
.see  a  furrowed  cheek,  weather-beaten  by  half  a  century 
of  storm,  turn  ashy  pale  at  the  glance  of  so  harmless  an 
individual  as  myself;  to  detect,  as  one  or  another 
addressed  me,  the  tremor  of  a  voice,  which,  in  long-past 
lays,  had  been  wont  to  bellow  through  a  speaking- 
trumpet,  hoarsely  enough  to  frighten  Boreas  himself  to 
silence.  They  knew,  these  excellent  old  persons,  that, 
by  all  established  rule,  —  and,  as  regarded  some  of 
them,  weighed  by  their  own  lack  of  efficiency  for  busi 
ness,  —  they  ought  to  have  given  place  to  younger  mep, 
more  orthodox  in  politics,  and  altogether  hitcr  than 
themselves  to  serve  our  common  Uncle.  I  ki>ew  it,  too, 
but  could  never  quite  find  in  my  heart  to  act  upon  the 
knowledge.  Much  and  deservedly  to  my  own  discredit, 
therefore,  and  considerably  to  the  detriment  of  my 
official  conscience,  they  continued,  -luring  my  incum 
bency,  to  creep  about  the  wharves,  and  Joiter  up  an£ 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  15 

down  the  Custom-House  steps.  They  spent  a  good 
deal  of  time,  also,  asleep  in  their  accustomed  corners, 
with  their  chairs  tilted  back  against  the  wall ;  awaking, 
however,  once  or  twice  in  a  forenoon,  to  bore  one 
mother  with  the  several  thousandth  repetition  of  old 
dea-storlss,  and  mouldy  jokes,  that  had  grown  to  be 
^ass-woids  and  countersigns  among  them. 

The  discovery  was  soon  made,  I  imagine,  that  the 
new  Surveyor  had  no  great  harm  in  him.  So,  with 
ughtsome  hearts,  and  the  happy  consciousness  of  being 
isefully  employed,  —  in  their  own  behalf,  at  least,  if 
lot  for  our  beloved  country,  —  these  good  old  gentlemer. 
•vent  through  the  various  formalities  of  office.  Saga 
ciously,  under  their  spectacles,  did  they  peep  into  the 
holds  of  vessels !  Mighty  was  their  fuss  about  little 
matters,  and  marvellous,  sometimes,  the  obtuseness  that 
allowed  greater  ones  to  slip  between  their  fingers ! 
Whenever  such  a  mischance  occurred, — when  a  wagon- 
load  of  valuable  merchandise  had  been  smuggled  ashore, 
at  noonday,  perhaps,  and  directly  beneath  their  unsus 
picious  noses,  —  nothing  could  exceed  the  vigilance  and 
alacrity  with  which  they  proceeded  to  lock,  and  double- 
lock,  and  secure  with  tape  and  sealing-wax,  all  the 
avenues  of  the  delinquent  vessel.  Instead  of  a  repri 
mand  for  thtxir  prtvious  negligence,  the  case  seemed 
rather  to  require  an  eulogium  on  their  praiseworthy 
uiution,  after  the  mischief  had  happened;  a  grateful 
recognition  of  the  promptitude  of  their  zeal,  the  moment 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  remedy. 

Unless  people  are  more  than  commonly  disagreeable, 
it  is  my  foolish  habit  to  contract  a  kindness  for  them. 
The  better  part  of  my  companion's  character,  if  it  have 


26  THE    SCJl^LET    LETTER. 

a  better  part,  is  that  which  usually  comes  uppermost 
in  my  regard,  and  forms  the  type  whereby  I  recognize 
the  man.  As  most  of  these  old  Custom-House  officers 
nad  good  traits,  and  as  my  position  in  reference  to  them 
being  paternal  and  protective,  was  favorable  to  the 
growth  of  friendly  sentiments,  I  soon  grew  to  like  them 
all.  it  was  pleasant,  in  the  summer  forenoons,  —  wher 
the  fervent  heat,  that  almost  liquefied  the  rest  of  th  i 
human  family,  merely  communicated  a  genial  warmth 
to  their  half-torpid  systems,  —  it  was  pleasant  to  hear 
them  chatting  in  the  back  entry,  a  row  of  them  all 
tipped  against  the  wall,  as  usual;  while  the  frozen  wit 
ticisms  of  past  generations  were  thawed  out,  and  came 
bubbling  with  laughter  from  their  lips.  Externally,  the 
jollity  of  aged  men  has  much  in  common  with  the  mirth 
of  children  ;  the  intellect,  any  more  than  a  deep  sense 
of  humor,  has  little  to  do  with  the  matter;  it  is,  with 
lx»th,  a  gleam  that  plays  upon  the  surface,  and  impa'rts  a 
sunny  and  cheery  aspect  alike  to  the  green  branch,  and 
gray,  mouldering  trunk.  In  one  case,  however,  it  is 
real  sunshine  ;  in  the  other,  it  more  resembles  the  phos 
phorescent  glow  of  decaying  wood. 

It  would  be  sad  injustice,  the  reader  must  understand, 
to  represent  all  my  excellent  old  friends  as  in  their 
dotage.  In  the  first  place,  my  coadjutors  were  not 
invariably  old ;  there  were  men  among  them  in  theii 
strength  and  prime,  of  marked  ability  and  energy,  and 
altogether  superior  to  the  sluggish  and  dependent  mode 
of  life  on  which  their  evil  stars  had  cast  them.  Then, 
moreover,  the  white  locks  of  age  were  sometimes  found 
fo  be  the  thatch  of  an  intellectual  tenement  in  good 
repair.  But,  as  respects  the  majority  of  my  co~ps  of 


•     THJ    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  IT 

veterans,  there  will  be  no  wrong  done,  if  J  characterize 
them  generally  as  a  set  of  wearisome  old  souls;  who  had 
gathered  nothing  worth  preservation  from  their  varied 
experience  of  life.  They^eemed  to-kaveJiung  away  alJ 

wisdom,  which  they  had 


tmjoyed  so  many  opportunities  of  harvesting,  and  most 
carefully  to  have  stored  their  memories  with  the  husks 
They  spoke  with  far  more  interest  and  unction  of  they 
jiorning's  breakfast,  or  yesterday's,  to-day's,  or  to-mor 
.xnv's  dinner,  than  of  the  shipwreck  of  forty  or  fifty 
fears  ago,  and  all  the  world's  wonders  which  they  had 
witnessed  with  their  youthful  eyes. 

The  father  of  the  Custom-House  —  the  patriarch,  not 
only  of  this  little  squad  of  officials,  but,  I  am  bold  to  say, 
of  the  respectable  body  of  tide-waiters  all  over  the 
United  States  —  was  a  certain  permanent  Inspector. 
He  might  truly  be  termed  a  legitimate  son  of  the 
revenue  system,  dyed  in  the  wool,  or,  rather,  born  in  the 
purple;  since  his  sire,  a  Revolutionary  colonel,  and 
formerly  collector  of  the  port,  had  created  an  office  foi 
him,  and  appointed  him  to  fill  it,  at  a  period  of  the  early 
ages  which  few  living  men  can  now  remember.  This 
Inspector,  when  I  first  knew  him,  was  a  man  of  four 
score  years,  or  thereabouts,  and"  certainly  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  specimens  of  winter-green  that  yon. 
would  be  likely  to  discover  in  a  lifetime's  search.  With 
his  florid  cheek,  his  compact  figure,  smartly  arrayed  in 
a  bright-buttoned  blue  coat,  his  brisk  and  vigorous  step, 
and  his  hale  and  hearty  aspect,  altogether  he  seemed  — 
not  young,  indeed  —  but  a  kind  of  new  contrivance  of 
Mother  Nature  in  the  shape  of  man,  whom  age  and 
mfirmit)r  had  no  business  to  touch.  His  voice  and 


18  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

laugh,  which  perpetually  reechoed  through  the  Custom 
House,  had  nothing  of  the  tremulous  quaver  and  cackle 
of  an  old  man's  utterance ;  they  came  strutting  out  of 
his  lungs,  like  the  crow  of  a  cock,  or  the  blast  of  a 
clarion.  Looking  at  him  merely  as  an  animal,  —  and 
there  was  very  little  else  to  look  at,  —  he  was  a  most 
satisfactory  object,  from  the  thorough  healthfumess  and 
wholesomeness  of  his  system,  and  his  capacity,  at  tha* 
sxtreme  age,  to  enjoy  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  delights 
which  he  had  eves  aimed  at,  or  conceived  of.  The 
careless  security  of  his  life  in  the  Custom-House,  on  a 
regular  income,  and  with  but- slight  and  infrequent 
apprehensions  of  removal,  had  no  doubt  contributed  to 
make  time  pass  lightly  over  him.  The  original  and 
more  potent  causes,  however,  lay  in  the  rare  perfection 
of  his  animal  nature,  the  moderate  proportion  of  intel 
lect,  and  the  very  trifling  admixture  of  moral  and 
spiritual  ingredients;  these  latter  qualities,  indeed, 
being  in  barely  enough  measure  to  keep  the  old  gentle 
man  from  walking  on  all-fours.  He  possessed  no  power 
of  thought,  no  depth  of  feeling,  no  troublesome  sensibil 
ities  ;  nothing,  in  short,  but  a  few  commonplace  instincts, 
which,  aided  by  the  cheerful  temper  that  grew  inevitably 
out  of  his  physical  well-being,  did  duty  very  respectably, 
and  to  general  acceptance,  in  lieu  of  a  heart.  He  had 
been  the  husband  of  three  wives,  all  long  since  dead ; 
the  father  of  twenty  children,  most  of  whom,  at  every 
age  of  childhood  or  maturity,  ha  likewise  returned  to 
dust.  Here,  one  would  suppose,  might  have  been  sor 
row  enough  to  imbue  the  sunniest  disposition,  through 
and  through,  with  a  sable  tin££.  Not  so  with  our  old 
Inspector !  One  brief  sigh  sufficed  to  carry  off 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  H 

burden  of  the&e  dismal  reminiscences.  The  next  mo 
ment,  he  was  is  ready  for  sport  as  any  unbreeched 
infant;  far  readier  than  the  Collector's  junior  clerk,  who, 
at  nineteen  years,  was  much  the  elder  and  graver  man 
of  the  two. 

I  used  to  watch  and  study  this  patriarchal  personage 
with,  I  think,  livelier  curiosity,  than  any  other  form  of 
humanity  there  presented  to  my  notice.  He  was,  in 
truth,  a  rare  phenomenon ;  so  perfect,  in  one  point  of 
view;  so  shallow,  so  deliisiv-er-so-impalpahle,  such  an 
absolute  nonentity,  in  every  other.  My  conclusion  was 
that  Jiehad  no  soul,jip_  heart,.no  mind ;  nothing,  as  I 
have  alreacly~said,  but  instincts :_  and  yet,  withal,  so 
cunningly  Jia4  the  ^ew-materials  of  his  character  been 
put  together,  that  there  was  no  painful  perception  of 
deficiency,  but,  on  my  part,  an  entire  contentment  with 
what  I  found  in  him.  It  might  be  difficult  —  and  it 
was  so  —  to  conceive  how  he  should  exist  hereafter,  so 
earthly  and  sensuous  did  he  seem ;  but  surely  his  exist 
ence  here,  admitting  that  it  was  to  terminate  with  his 
last  breath,  had  been  not  unkindly  given ;  with  _nn 
Jiigher  moral-responsibilities  than  the  beasts  of  the  field, 
but  .arith  a  larger  scope  of  enjoyment  than  theirs,  and 
with  all  their  blessed  immunity  from  the  dreariness  and 
vluskiness  of  age. 

One  point,  in  which  he  had  vastly  the  advantage  over 
his  four-footed  brethren,  was  his  ability  to  recollect  the 
g-ood  dinners  which  it  had  made  no  small  portion  of  the 
happiness  of  his  life  to  eat.  His  gourmandism  was  a 
highly  agreeable  trait ;  and  to  hear  nim  talk  of  roast- 
meat  was  as  appetizing  as  a  pickle  or  an  oyster.  As 
he  possessed  10  higher  attribute,  and  neither  sacrificed 


.20  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

nor  vitiated  any  spiritual  endowment  by  Jevotiug  all 
bis  energies  ana  ingenuities  to  subserve  the  delight  and 
profit  of  his  maw,  it  always  pleased  and  satisfied  me  to 
hear  him  expatiate  on  fish,  poultry,  and  butcher's  meat, 
and  the  most  eligible  methods  of  preparing  them  for 
the  table.  His  reminiscences  of  good  cheer,  however 
ancient  the  date  of  the  actual  banquet,  seemed  to  bring 
the  savor  of  pig  or  turkey  under  one's  very  nostrils. 
There  were  flavors  on  his  palate,  that  had  lingered 
there  not  less  than  sixty  or  seventy  years,  and  were  still 
apparently  as  fresh  as  that  of  the  mutton-chop  which  he 
hac?  just  devoured  for  his  breakfast.  I  have  heard  him 
smack  his  lips  over  dinners,  every  guest  at  which, 
except  himself,  had  long  been  food  for  worms.  It  was 
marvellous  to  observe  how  the  ghosts  of  bygone  meals 
.were  continually  rising  up  before  him ;  not  in  anger  01 
retribution,  but  as  if  grateful  for  his  former  appreciation 
and  seeking  to  repudiate  an  endless  series  of  enjoyment, 
at- once  shadowy  and  sensual.  A  tender-loin  of  beef,  a 
hind-quarter  of  veal,  a  spare-rib  of  pork,  a  particular 
chicken,  or  a  remarkably  praiseworthy  turkey,  which 
had  perhaps  adorned  his  board  in  the  days  of  the  elder 
Adams,  would  be  remembered ;  while  all  the  subsequent 
experience  of  our  race,  and  all  the  events  that  bright- 
ened  or  darkened  his  individual  career,  had  gone  ovei 
him  with  as  little  permanent  effect  as  the  passing 
breeze.  The  chief  tragic  event  of  the  old  man's  life,  so 
far  as  I  cou.d  judge,  was  his  mishap  with  a  certain 
goose  which  lived  and  died  some  twenty  or  forty  years 
ago;  a  goose  oi  most  promising  figure,  but  which,  at 
proved  so  in vetertitely  tough  that  the  carving-knife 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  2l 

vrould  make  no  impression  on  its  carcass,  and  it  could 
only  be  divided  with  an  axe  and  handsaw. 

But  it  is  time  to  quit  this  sketch ;  on  which,  however 
I  should  be  glad  to  dwell  at  considerably  more  length 
because,  of  all  men  whom  I  have  ever  known,  this  indi 
vidual  was.  fittest  to  be  j^  Custom-House  officer.  MosJ 
persons,  owing  to  causes  which  I  may  not  have  space  tc 
hint  at,  suffer  moral  detriment  from  this  peculiar  mode 
of  life.  The.  old  Inspector  was  incapable  of  it,  and, 
were  he  to  continue  in  office  to  the  end  of  time,  would 
be  just  as  good  as  he  was  then,  and  sit  down  to  dinner 
with  just  as  good  an  appetite. 

There  is  one  likeness,  without  which  my  gallery  of 
Custom-House  portraits  would  be  strangely  incomplete ; 
but  which  my  comparatively  few  opportunities  for  obser 
vation  enable  me  to  sketch  only  in  the  merest  outline. 
It  is  that  of  the  Collector,  our  gallant  old  General,  who, 
after  his  brilliant  military  service,  subsequent!^  to  which 
he  had  ruled  over  a  wild  Western  territory,  had  come 
hither,  twenty  years  before,  to  spend  the  decline  of  his 
varied  and  honorable  life.  The  brave  soldier  had  already 
numbered,  nearly  or  quite,  his  threescore  years  and  ten, 
ind  was  pursuing  the  remainder  of  his  earthly  march, 
burdened  with  infirmities  which  even  the  martial  music 
of  his  own  spirit-stirring  recollections  could  do  littla 
towards  lightening.  The  step  was  palsied  now,  thaJ 
had  been  foremost  in  the  charge.  It  was  only  with  the 
assistance  of  a  servant,  and  by  leaning  his  hand  heavilv 
on  the  iron  balustrade,  that  he  could  slowlv  and  pain 
ful!  v  ascend  the  Custom-House  stens.  and,  with  a  toi]- 
some  progress  across  the  floor,  attain  his  customary  cban 
beside  the  fireplace.  There  bp  uwd  to  sit.  era/in^ 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER, 

a  somewhat  dim  serenity  of  aspect  at  the  figures  thai 
came  and  went ;  amid  the  rustle  of  papers,  the  adm.nis- 
tering  of  oaths,  the  discussion  of  business,  and  the  casual 
talk  of  the  office ;  all  which  sounds  and  circumstances 
seemed  but  indistinctly  to  impress  his  senses,  and  hardly 
to  make  their  way  into  his  inner  sphere  of  contempla 
tion.  His  countenance,  in  this  repose,  was  mild  and 
kindly.  If  his  notice  was  sought,  an  expression  of  cour 
tesy  and  interest  gleamed  out  upon  his  features  ;  prov 
ing  that  there  was  light  within  him.  and  that  it  was  only 
the  outward  medium  of  the  intellectual  lamp  that  ob 
structed  the  rays  in  their  passage.  The  closer  you  pen 
etrated  to  the  substance  of  his  mind,  the  sounder  it 
appeared.  When  no  longer  called  upon  to  speak,  or 
listen,  either  of  which  operations  cost  him  an  evident 
effort,  his  face  would  briefly  subside  into  its  former  not 
uncheerful  quietude.  It  was  not  painful  to  behold  this 
look ;  for,  though  dim,  it  had  not  the  imbecility  of  de 
caying  age.  The  framework  of  his  nature,  originally 
strong  and  massive,  was  not  yet  crumbled  into  ruin. 

To  observe  and  define  his  character,  however,  under 
such  disadvantages,  was  as  difficult  a  task  as  to  trace 
out  and  build  up  anew,  in  imagination,  an  old  fortress, 
like  Ticonderoga,  from  a  view  of  its  gray  and  broken 
ruins.  Here  and  there,  perchance,  the  walls  may  remain 
almost  complete  ,  but  elsewhere  may  be  only  a  shape 
less  mound,  cumbrous  with  its  very  strength,  and  over 
grown,  through  long  years  of  peace  a\id  neglect,  with 
grass  and  alien  weeds. 

Nevertheless,  looking  at  the  old  wrjrior  with  affec 
tion, —  for,  slight  as  was  the  communication  between 
us,  my  feeling  towards  him,  like  that  of  all  bipeds  anc 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSJ.  23 

quadrupeds  who  knew  him,  might  not  impropt  rly  be 
termed  so,  —  I  could  discern  the  main  points  of  his 
portrait.  It  was  marked  with  the  noble  and  heroic 
qualities  which  showed  it  to  be  not  by  a  mere  accident, 
but  of  good  right,  that  he  had  won  a  distinguished  name. 
His  spirit  could  never,  I  conceive,  have  been  character 
ized  by  an  uneasy  activity  ;  -it  must^at  any  period  of  his 
life,  have  required  an  impulse  to_set  him  in  motion; 
at^QBfieijBtirjEcji-i^^  to  overcome,  and  an 

adequate  object  to  ue  attained,  it  wa$  not  in  the  man  to 
give_QuX_orJail^  The  heat  that  had  formerly  pervaded 
his  nature,  and  which  was  not  yet  extinct,  was  never  of 
the  kind  that  flashes  and  nickers  in  a  blaze  ;  but,  rather, 
a  deep,  red  glow,  as  of  iron  in  a  furnace.  Weight,  solid 
ity,  firmness  ;  this  was  the  expression  of  his  repose,  even 
in  such  decay  as  had  crept  untimely  over  him,  at  the 
period  of  which  I  speak.  But  I  could  imagine,  even 
then,  that,  under  some  excitement  which  should  go 
deeply  into  his  consciousness,  —  roused  by  a  trumpet- 
peal,  loud  enough  to  awaken  all  of  his  energies  that  were 
not  dead,  but  only  slumbering,  — he  was  yet  capable  of 
flinging  off  his  infirmities  like  a  sick  man's  gown,  drop 
ping  the  staff  of  age  to  seize  a  battle-sword,  and  starting 
up  once  more  a  warrior.  And,  in  so  intense  a  moment, 
his  demeanor  would  have  still  been  calm.  Svch  an  ey- 
hibition,  however,  was  but  to  be  pictured  in  fancy ;  not 
to  be  anticipated,  nor  desired.  What  I  saw  in  him  — 
as  evidently  as  the  indestructible  ramparts  of  Old  Ticon- 
rieroga  already  cited  as  the  most  appropriate  simile  — 
were  the  features  of  stubborn  aid  ponderous  endurancej 
which  might  well  have  amounted  to  obstinacy«in  his 
earlier  days;  of  integrry,  that,  like  most  ef  his  othe* 


*4  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

endowments,  lay  in  a  somewhat  heavy  mass,  and  was 
just  as  unmalleable  and  unmanageable  as  a  ton  of  iron 
ore ;  and  of  benevolence,  which,  fiercely  as  he  led  the 
bayonets  on  at  Chippewa  or  Fort  Erie,  I  take  to  be  of 
quite  as  genuine  a  stamp  as  what  actuates  any  or  all  the 
polemical  philanthropists  of  the  age.  He  had  slain  men 
with  his  own  hand,  for  aught  I  know ,  —  certainly,  they 
had  fallen,  like  blades  of  grass  at  the  sweep  of  the 
scythe,  before  the  charge  to  which  his  spirit  imparted  its 
triumphant  energy ;  —  but,  be  that  as  it  might,  there 
was  never  in  his  heart  so  much  cruelty  as  would  have 
brushed  the  down  off  a  butterfly's  wing.  I  have  not 
known  the  man,  to  whose  innate  kindliness  I  would 
more  confidently  make  an  appeal. 

Many  characteristics — and  those,  too,  which  contrib 
ute  not  the  least  forcibly  to  impart  resemblance  in  a  sketr.i 
—  must  have  vanished,  or  been  obscured,  before  I  met 
the  General.  All  merely  graceful  attributes  are  usually 
the  most  evanescent ;  nor  does  Nature  adorn  the  human 
ruin  with  blossoms  of  new  beauty,  that  have  their  roots 
and  proper  nutriment  only  in  the  chinks  and  crevices  of 
decay,  as  she  sows  wall-flowers  over  the  ruined  fortress 
of  Ticonderoga.  Still,  even  in  respect  of  grace  and 
beauty,  there  were  points  well  worth  noting.  A  ray  of 
humor,  now  and  then,  would  make  its  way  through  the 
veil  of  dim  obstruction,  and  glimmer  pleasantly  upon 
our  faces.  A  trait  of  native  elegance,  seldom  seen  in  the 
masculine  character  after  childhood  or  early  youth,  wa? 
shown  in  the  General's  fondness  for  the  sight  and  fra 
grance  of  flowers.  An  old  soldier  might  be  supposed  to 
prize  o%ily  the  bloody  laurel  on  his  brow ;  but  here  was 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  25 

jne,  who  seemed  to  have  a  young  girl's  appreciation  of 
the  floral  tribe. 

There,  beside  the  fireplace,  the  brave  old  General 
used  to  sit ;  while  the  Surveyor  —  though  seldom,  when 
it  could  be  avoided,  taking  upon  himself  the  difficult  task 
of  engaging  him  in  conversation  —  was  fond  of  standing 
at  a  distance,  and  watching  his  quiet  and  almost  slum 
berous  countenance.  He  seemed  away  from  us,  although 
we  saw  him  but  a  few  yards  off;  remote,  though  we 
passed  close  beside  his  chair;  unattainable,  though  we 
might  have  stretched  forth  our  hands  and  touched  hi.3 
ovm.  It  might  be  that  he  lived  a  more  real  life  within 
hio  thoughts,  than  amid  the  unappropriate  environment 
of  the  Collector's  office.  The  evolutions  of  the  parade  ; 
the  tumult  of  the  battle  ;  the  nourish  of  old,  heroic  mu 
sic,  heard  thirty  years  before  ;  —  such  scenes  and  sounds, 
perhaps,  were  all  alive  before  his  intellectual  sense. 
Meanwhile,  the  merchants  and  ship-masters,  the  spruce 
clerks  and  uncouth  sailors,  entered  and  departed ;  the 
bustle  of  this  commercial  and  Custom-House  life  kept 
up  its  little  murmur  round  about  him  ;  and  neither  with 
the  men  nor  their  affairs  did  the  General  appear  to  sus 
tain  the  most  distant  relation.  He  was  as  much  out  of 
place  as  an  old  sword  —  now  rusty,  but  which  had 
flashed  once  in  the  battle's  front,  and  showed  still  a 
bright  gleam  along  its  blade  —  would  have  been,  among 
the  inkstands,  paper-folders,  and  mahogany  rulers,  OB 
the  Deputy  Collector's  desk. 

There  was  one  thing  that  much  aided  me  in  renew- 
Ing  and  re-creating  the  stalwart  soldier  of  the  Niagara 
frontier,  —  the  man  of  true  and  simple  energy.  It  was 
the  recollection  of  those  memorable  words  c>f  his,  — 


26  THI.    SCARLET    LETTER 

•'I'll  try  Sir  ! ''  — spoken  on  the  very  verge  of  a  dts 
perate  and  heroic  enterprise,  and  breathing  the  soul  and 
spirit  of  New  England  hardihood,  comprehending  a'iJ 
perils,  and  encountering  all.  If,  in  our  countiy,  valoi 
were  rewarded  by  heraldic  honor,  this  phrase  —  which 
-,t  seems  so  easy  to  speak,  but  which  only  he,  with  such 
i  task  of  danger  and  glory  before  him,  has  ever  spoken 

would  be  the  best  and  fit  test  of  all  mottoes  for  the 
^eneral's  shield  of  arms. 

It  contributes  greatly  towards  a  man's  moral  and  intel- 
ectual  health,  to  be  brought  into  habits  of  compariion- 
,nip  with  individuals  unlike  himself,  who  care  little  for 
/>is  pussuitg.  and  whose  sphere  and  abilities  he  must  go 
out  of  Kim-ifilf  to  appreciate.  The  accidents  of  my  life 
have  often  afforded  me  this  advantage,  but  never  with 
more  fuhiros  and  variety  than  during  my  continuance  in 
office.  There  was  one  man,  especially,  the  observation 
of  ^hose  character  gave  me  a  new  idea  of  talent.  His 
gifts  were  emphatically  those  of  a  man  of  business ; 
prompt,  acute,  clear-minded;  with  an  eye  that  saw 
thiough  all  perplexities,  and  a  faculty  of  arrangement 
that  male  them  vanish,  as  by  the  waving  of  an  enchant 
er's  wand.  Bred  up  from  .boyhood  in  the  Custom-House 
it  was  his  proper  field  of  activity ;  and  the  many  intri 
cacies  of  business,  so  harassing  to  the  interloper,  pre 
sented  themselves  before  him  with  the  regularity  of  a 
perfectly  comprehended  system.  In  my  contemplation, 
he  stood  as  the  ideal  of  his  class.  He  was,  indeed,  the 
Custom-House  in  himself ;  or,  at  all  events,  the  main 
spring  that  kept  its  variously  revolving  wheels  in  mo« 
**on ;  for,  in  an  institution  like  this,  where  its  officers  are 
•»r>Dointed  to  subserve  their  own  profit  and  convenience 


i'llE    CUSTOM-HOD  vE.  2T 

and  scldor.  with  a  leading  reference  to  their  fitness  foi 
the  duty  to  be  performed,  they  must  perforce  seek  else< 
where  the  dexterity  which  is  not  in  them.  Thus,  by  an 
inevitable  necessity,  as  a  magnet  attracts  steel-filings,  so 
did  our  man  of  business  draw  to  himself  the  difficulties 
which  everybody  met  with.  With  an  easy  condescen 
sion,  and  kind  forbearance  towards  our  stupidity, — 
which,  to  his  order  of  mind,  must  have  seemed  little 
short  of  crime,  —  would  he  forthwith,  by  the  merest 
touch  of  his  finger,  make  the  incomprehensible  as  clear 
as  daylight.  The  merchants  valued  him  not  less  than 
we,  his  esoteric  friends.  His  integrity  was  perfect ;  :t 
was  a  law  of  nature  with  him,  rather  than  a  choice  or  a 
principle ;  nor  can  it  be  otherwise  than  the  main  con 
dition  of  an  intellect  so  remarkably  clear  and  accurate  as 
his,  to  be  honest  and  regular  in  the  administration  of 
affairs.  A  stain  on  his  conscience,  as  to  anything  thai 
came  within  the  range  of  his  vocation,  would  trouble 
such  a  man  very  much  in  the  Fame  wray,  though  to  a  tar 
greater  degree,  than  an  error  in  the  balance  of  an  ac 
count,  or  an  ink-blot  on  the  fair  page  of  a  book  of  record. 
Here,  in  a  word,  — and  it  is  a  rare  instance  in  my  life,  -f- 
I  had  met  with  a  person  thoroughly  adapted  to  the  situ 
ation  which  he  held. 

Such  were  some  of  the  people  with  whcm  1  now 
found  myself  connected.  I  took  it  in  good  part,  at  the 
hands  of  Providence,  that  I  was  thrown  into  a  position 
so  little  akin  to  my  past  habits ;  and  set  myself  seriously 
to  gather  from  it  whatever  profit  was  to  be  had.  After 
my  fellowship  of  toil  and  impracticable  schemes  with 
the  dreamy  brethren  of  Brook  Farm ;  after  living  foi 
three  years  within  the  subtile  influence  of  an  intellect 


28  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

like  Emerson's ;  alter  those  wild,  free  days  on  the  Assa 
oeth,  indulging  fantastic  speculations,  beside  our  fire  oi 
fallen  bougns,  with  Ellery  Charming ;  after  talking  with 
Thoreau  about  pine-trees  and  Indian  relics,  in  his  her 
mitage  atWal.len  ;  after  growing  fastidious  by  sympathy 
with  the  classic  refinement  of  Hillard's  culture  ;  after 
becoming  imbued  with  poetic  sentiment  at  Longfellow's 
hearth-stone ;  —  it  was  time,  at  length,  that  I  should 
exercise  other  faculties  of  my  nature,  and  nourish  myself 
with  food  for  winch  I  had  hitherto  had  little  appetite. 
Even  the  old  Inspector  was  desirable,  as  a  change  of 
diet,  to  a  man  who  had  known  Alcott.  I  looked  upon  it 
as  an  evidence,  in  some  measure,  of  a  sy&tem  naturally 
well  balanced,  and  lacking  no  essential  part  of  a  thorough 
organization,  that,  with  such  associates  to  remember,  1 
could  mingle  at  once  with  men  of  altogether  different 
qualities,  and  never  murmur  at  the  change. 

Literature,  its  exertions  and  objects,  were  now  of  little 
moment  in  my  regard.  I  cared  not,  at  this  period,  for 
books ;  they  were  apart  from  me.  Nature,  —  except  it 
were  human  nature,  —  the  nature  that  is  developed  in 
earth  and  sky,  was,  in  one  sense,  hidden  from  me ;  and 
all  the  imaginative  delight,  wherewith  it  had  been  spirit 
ualized,  passed  away  out  of  my  mind.  A  gift,  a  faculty 
if  it  had  not  departed,  was  suspended  and  inanimate1 
.within  me.  There  would  have  been  something  sad 
unutterably  dreary,  in  all  this,  had  I  not  been  conscious 
that  it  lay  at  my  own  option  to  recall  whatever  was  val 
uable  in  the  past.  It  might  be  true,  indeed,  that  this 
was  a  life  which  could  not  with  impunity,  be  lived  too 
long ;  else,  it  might  made  me  permanently  other  than  1 
Wd  \teen  without  transforming  me  into  any  shape  which 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  29 

it  muld  be  worth  my  vvnile  to  take.  But  I  never  con 
sidered  it  as  other  than  a  transitory  life.  There  was 
always  a  prophetic  instinct,  a  low  whisper  in  my  ear. 
ihat,  within  no  long  period,  and  whenever  a  new  change 
of  custom  should  be  essential  to  my  good,  e  change 
would  come. 

Meanwhile,  there  I  was,  a  Surveyor  of  the  Revenue 
and,  .  o  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  understand,  as  good  a 
Surveyor  as  need  be.  A  man  of  thought,  fancy,  and 
sensibility,  (had  he  ten  times  the  Surveyor's  proportion 
of  those  qualities,)  ma;  ,  at  any  time,  be  a  man  of  affairs, 
if  he  will  only  choose  to  give  himself  the  trouble.  My 
fellow-officers,  and  the  merchants  and  sea-captains  with 
whom  my  official  duties  brought  me  into  any  manner  of 
connection,  viewed  me  in  no  other  light,  and  probably 
knew  me  in  no  other  character.  None  of  them.  I  pre- 
sums,  had  ever  read  a  page  of  my  inditing,  or  would 
have  cared  a  fig  the  more  for  me,  if  they  had  read  them 
all ;  nor  would  it  have  mended  the  matter,  in  the  least, 
had  those  same  unprofitable  pages  been  written  with  a 
pen  like  that  of  Burns  or  of  Chaucer,  each  of  whom  was 
a  Custom-House  officer  in  his  day,  as  well  as  I.  It  is  a 
good  lesson  —  though  it  may  often  be  a  hard  one  —  foi 
a  man  who  has  dreamed  of  literary  fame,  and  of  making 
for  himself  a  rank  among  the  world's  dignitaries  by  such 
means,  to  step  aside  out  of  the  narrow  circle  in  which 
his  claims  are  recognized,  and  to  find  how  utterly  devoid 
of  significance,  beyond  that  circle,  is  all  that  he  a.-.hieves. 
and  all  he  aims  at.  I  know  not  that  I  especiaPy  needed 
the  lesson,  either  in  the  way  of  warning  or  rebuke  ;  but, 
at  any  rate,  I  learned  it  thoroughly :  nrr  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  reflect,  did  the  truth,  as  it  came  home  to  my 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

perception,  ever  cost  me  a  pang,  or  require  tc  oe 
orf  in  a  sigh.  In  the  way  of  literary  talk,  it  is  true,  the 
Naval  Officer  —  an  excellent  fellow,  who  came  into  office 
with  me  anj  went  out  only  a  little  later  —  would  often 
engage  me  in  a  discussion  about  one  or  the  other  of  his 
favorite  topics,  Napoleon  or  Shakspeare.  T^e  Collector's 
junior  clerk,  too,  —  a  young  gentleman  who,  it  was  whis 
pered,  occasionally  covered  a  sheet  of  Uncle  Sam's  letter- 
paper  with  what  (at  the  distance  of  a  few  yards)  looked 
very  much  like  poetry,  —  used  now  and  then  to  speak  t<r 
me  of  books,  as  matters  with  which  I  might  possibly  be 
conversant.  This  was  my  all  of  lettered  intercourse ; 
and  it  was  quite  sufficient  for  my  necessities. 

No  longer  seeking  nor  caring  that  my  name  should 
be  blazoned  abroad  on  title-pages,  I  smiled  to  think  that 
it  had  now  another  kind  of  vogue.  The  Custom-House 
marker  imprinted  it,  with  a  stencil  and  black  paint,  on 
pepper-bags,  and  baskets  of  anatto,  and  cigar-boxes,  and 
bales  of  all  kinds  of  dutiable  merchandise,  in  testimony 
that  these  commodities  had  paid  the  impost,  and  gone 
regularly  through  the  office.  Borne  on  such  queer  vehi 
cle  of  fame,  a  knowledge  of  my  existence,  so  far  as  a 
name  conveys  it,  was  carried  where  it  had  never  been 
before,  and,  I  hope,  will  never  go  again. 

But  the  past  was  not  dead.  Once  in  a  great  while, 
the  thoughts,  that  had  seemed  so  vital  and  so  active,  yet 
had  been  put  to  rest  so  quietly,  revived  again.  One  of 
the  most  remarkable  occasions,  when  the  habit  of  by 
gone  days  awoke  in  me,  was  that  which  brings  it  with  in 
the  law  of  literary  propriety  to  offer  the  public  the  skeU  h 
which  I  am  now  writing. 

In  the  second  story  of  the  Custom-House.  there  is  9 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  31 

arge  room,  in  which  the  brick-work  and  naked  rafters 
have  never  been  coverrd  with  panelling  and  plaster. 
The  edifice  —  originally  projected  on  a  scale  adapted  to 
the  old  commercial  enterprise  of  the  port,  and  with  an 
idea  of  subsequent  prosperity  destined  never  to  be  real 
ized —  contains  far  moro  space  than  its  occupants  know 
what  to  do  with.  This  airy  hall,  therefore,  over  the 
Collector's  apartments,  remains  unfinished  to  this  day, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  aged  cobwebs  that  festoon  its  dusky 
beams,  appears  still  to  await  the  labor  of  the  carpenter 
and  mason.  At  one  end  of  the  room,  in  a  recess,  were 
a  number  of  barrels,  piled  one  upon  another,  containing 
bundles  of  official  documents.  Large  quantities  of  sim 
ilar  rubbish  lay  lumbering  the  floor.  It  was  sorrowful 
to  think  how  many  days,  and  weeks,  and  months,  and 
years  of  toil,  had  been  wasted  on  ihese  musty  papers, 
which  were  now  only  an  encumbrance  on  earth,  and 
were  hidden  away  in  this  forgotten  corner,  never  more 
to  be  glanced  at  by  human  eyes.  But,  then,  what  reams 
of  other  manuscripts  —  filled  not  with  the  dulness  of  offi 
cial  formalities,  but  with  the  thought  of  inventive  brains! 
and  the  rich  effusion  of  deep  hearts  —  had  gone  equally 
to  oblivion ;  and  that,  moreover,  without  serving  a  pur 
pose  in  their  day,  as  these  heaped-up  papers  had,  and  — 
saddest  of  all  —  without  purchasing  for  their  writers  the 
comfortable  livelihood  which  the  clerks  of  the  Custom- 
House  had  gained  by  these  worthless  scratchings  of  the 
pen !  Yet  not  altogether  worthless,  perhaps,  as  mate 
rials  of  local  history.  Here,  no  doubt,  statistics  of  the 
former  commerce  of  Salem  might  be  discovered,  and 
memorials  of  her  princely  merchants,  —  old  King  Derby, 

—  old  Bill)  Gray,  —  old  Simon  Forrester,--  and  many 


32  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

another  magnate  in  his  day;  whose  powdered  hevl 
however,  was  scarcely  in  the  tomb,  before  his  mountain- 
pile  of  wealth  began  to  dwindle.  The  founders  of  the 
greater  part  of  the  families  which  now  compose  the  aris 
tocracy  of  Salem  might  here  be  traced,  from  the  pettj, 
and  obscure  beginnings  of  their  traffic,  at  periods  gener- 
ally  much  posterior  to  the  Revolution,  upward  to  what 
their  children  look  upon  as  long-established  rank. 

Prior  to  the  Revolution,  there  is  a  dearth  of  records  ,, 
the  earlier  documents  and  archives  of  the  Custom-House 
having,  probably,  been  carried  off  to  Halifax,  when  all 
the  King's  officials  accompanied  the  British  army  in  its 
flight  from  Boston.  It  has  often  been  a  matter  of  regret 
with  me  ;  for,  going  back,  perhaps,  to  the  days  of  the 
Protectorate,  those  papers  must  have  contained  many 
references  to  forgotten  or  remembered  men,  and  to  an 
tique  customs,  which  would  have  affected  me  with  the: 
same  pleasure  as  when  I  used  to  pick  up  Indian  arrow 
heads  in  the  field  near  the  Old  Manse. 

But,  one  idle  and  rainy  day,  it  was  my  fortune  to 
make  a  discovery  of  some  little  interest.  Poking  and 
burrowing  into  the  heaped-up  rubbish  in  the  corner; 
unfolding  one  and  another  document,  and  reading  the 
names  of  vessels  that  had  long  ago  foundered  at  sea  or 
rotted  at  the  wharves,  and  those  of  merchants,  nevei 
heard  of  now  on  'Change,  nor  very  readily  decipherable 
on  their  mossy  tomb-stories  ;  glancing  at  such  matters 
with  the  saddened,  weary,  half-reluctant  interest  which 
we  besto\\  on  the  corpse  of  dead  activity,  —  and  exerting 
my  fancy,  sluggish  with  little  use,  to  raise  up  from  these 
dry  bones  an  image  of  the  old  town's  brighter  aspect, 
when  India  was  a  new  region,  and  only  Salem 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  33 

ihe  way  thither,  —  I  chanced  to  lay  my  hand  on  a  small 
package,  carefully  done  up  in  a  piece  of  ancient  yellow 
parchment.  This  envelope  had  the  air  of  an  official 
record  of  some  period  long  past,  when  clerks  engrossed 
their  stiff  and  formal  chirography  on  more  substantial 
materials  than  at  present.  There  was  something  about 
it  that  quickened  an  instinctive  curiosity,  and  made  me 
undo  the  faded  red  tape,  that  tied  up  the  package,  with 
the  sense  that  a  treasure  would  here  be  brought  to  light, 
Unbending  the  rigid  folds  of  the  parchment  cover,  1  found 
it  to  be  a  commission,  under  the  hand  and  seal  of  Gov 
ernor  Shirley,  in  favor  of  one  Jonathan  Pue,  as  Surveyoi 
of  his  Majesty's  Customs  for  the  port  of  Salem,  in  the 
Province  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  I  remembered  to  have 
read  (probably  in  Felt's  Annals)  a  notice  of  the  decease 
of  Mr.  Surveyor  Pue,  about  fourscore  years  ago;  and 
liuewise,  in  a  newspaper  of  recent  times,  an  account  of 
the  digging  up  of  his  remains  in  the  little  grave-yard  of 
St.  Peter's  Church,  during  the  renewal  of  that  edifice. 
Nothing,  if  I  rightly  call  to  mind,  was  left  of  my  respected 
predecessor,  save  an  imperfect  skeleton,  and  some  frag 
ments  of  apparel,  and  a  wig  of  majestic  frizzle ;  which, 
unlike  the  head  that  it  once  adorned,  was  in  very  satis 
factory  preservation.  But,  on  examining  the  papers 
which  the  parchment  commission  served  ^o  envelop,  I 
found  more  traces  of  Mr.  Pue's  mental  part,  and  the  in- 
terna.  operations  of  his  head,  than  the  frizzled  wig  had 
contained  of  the  venerable  skull  itself. 

They  were  documents,  in  short,  not  official,  tut  of  a 

private  nature,  or,  at  least,  written  in  his  private  capacity, 

and  Apparently  with  his  own  hand.     1  could  account  foi 

their  being  included  in  the  he?n  of  Custom- Hou?" 

3 


34  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

only  by  the  fact,  that  Mr.  Pue'  death  had  happened  sud 
denly  ;  and  that  these  papers,  which  he  probably  kept  in 
his  official  desk,  had  never  come  to  the  knowledge  of  his 
heirs,  01  were  supposed  to  relate  to  the  business  of  the 
revenue.  On  the  transfer  of  the  archives  to  Halifax,  this 
package,  proving  to  be  of  no  public  concern,  vias  left 
behind,  and  had  remained  ever  since  unopened. 

The  ancient  Surveyor  —  being  little  molested.  I  sup 
pose,  at  that  early  day,  with  business  pertaining  to  his 
office  —  seems  to  have  devoted  some  of  his  many  leisure 
hours  to  researches  as  a  local  antiquarian,  and  other 
inquisitions  of  a  similar  nature.  These  supplied  material 
for  petty  activity  to  a  mind  that  would  otherwise  have 
been  eaten  up  with  rust.  A  portion  of  his  facts,  by  the 
by,  did  me  good  service  in  the  preparation  of  the  article 
entitled  "  MAIN  STREET,"  included  in  the  present  volume. 
The  remainder  may  perhaps  be  applied  to  purposes 
equally  valuable,  hereafter ;  or  not  impossibly  may  be 
worked  up,  so  far  as  they  go,  into  a  regular  history  of 
Salem,  should  my  veneration  for  the  natal  soil  ever  impel 
me  to  so  pious  a  task.  Meanwhile,  they  shall  be  at  the 
command  of  any  gentleman,  inclined,  and  competent,  to 
take  the  unprofitable  labor  off  my  hands.  As  a  final 
disposition,  I  contemplate  depositing  them  with  the  Essex 
Historical  Sgciety. 

But  the  object  that  most  drew  my  attention  In  tne 
mysterious  package,  was  a  certain  affair  of  fine  red  cloth, 
much  worn  and  faded.  There  were  traces  about  it  of 
gold  embroidery,  which,  however,  was  greatly  frayed  and 
defaced  ;  so  that  none,  or  very  little,  of  the  glitter  was 
left  It  had  been  wrought,  as  was  easy  to  perceive,  v»ith 
skill  of  needlework ;  and  the  stitch  (as  1  im 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  35 

assured  by  ladies  conversant  with  such  mysteries)  gives 
evidence  of  a  now  forgotten  art,  not  to  be  recovered  even 
by  the  process  of  picking  out  the  threads.  Th's  rag  of 
scarlet  cloth,  —  for  time,  and  wear,  and  a  sacrilegious 
moth,  had  reduced  it  to  little  other  than  a  rag,  —  on  care 
ful  examination,  assumed  the  shape  of  a  letter.  It  was 
the  capital  letter  A.  By  an  accurate  measurement,  each 
limb  proved  to  be  precisely  three  inches  and  a  quarter  in 
length.  It  had  been  intended,  there  could  be  no  doubt, 
as  an  ornamental  article  of  dress  ;  but  how  it  was  to  be 
worn,  or  what  rank,  honor,  and  dignity,  in  by-past  times, 
were  signified  by  it,  was  a  riddle  which  (so  evanescent  are 
the  fashions  of  the  world  in  these  particulars)  I  saw  little 
hope  of  solving.  And  yet  it  strangely  interested  me. 
My  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  the  old  scarlet  letter, 
and  would  not  be  turned  aside.  Certainly,  there  was 
some  deep  meaning  in  it,  most  worthy  of  interpretation, 
and  which,  as  it  were,  streamed  forth  from  the  mystic 
symbol,  subtly  communicating  itself  to  my  sensibilities, 
but  evading  the  analysis  of  my  mind. 

While  thus  perplexed,  —  and  cogitating,  among  other 
hypotheses,  whether  the  letter  might  not  have  been  one 
of  those  decorations  which  the  white  men  used  to  con 
trive,  in  order  to  take  the  eyes  of  Indians,  —  I  happened 
to  place  it  on  my  breast.  It  seemed  to  me,  —  the  reader 
may  smile,  but  must  not  doubt  my  word,  —  it  seemed  k« 
me,  then,  that  I  experienced  a  sensation  not  altogethei 
physical,  yet  almost  so,  as  of  burning  heat ;  and  as  if  the 
letter  were  not  of  red  cloth,  but  red-ho.t  iron.  I  shud 
dered,  and  involuntarily  let  it  fall  upon  the  floor. 

In  the  absorbing  contemplation  of  the  scarlet  letter,  I 
had  hitherto  neglected  to  examine  a  small  roll  of  dingy 


6  THE    SCARLET    LETTEfc. 

paper,  around  which  it  had  been  twisted.  Thb  I  no\\ 
opened,  and  had  the  satisfaction  to  find,  recorded  by  the  old 
Surveyor's  pen,  a  reasonably  complete  explanation  of  the 
whole  affair.  There  were  several  foolscap  sheets,  contain 
ing  many  particulars  respecting  the  life  and  conversation 
of  one  Hester  Prynne,  who  appeared  to  have  been  rathei 
a  noteworthy  personage  in  the  view  01  our  ancestors. 
She  had  flourished  during  the  period  between  the  early 
days  of  Massachusetts  and  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  Aged  persons,  alive  in  the  time  of  Mr.  Sur 
veyor  Pue,  and  from  whose  oral  testimony  he  had  made 
up  his  narrative,  remembered  her,  in  their  youth,  as  a 
very  old,  but  not  decrepit  woman,  of  a  stately  and  solemn 
aspect.  It  had  been  her  habit,  from  an  almost  irnmerno- 
.ial  date,  to  go  about  the  country  as  a  kind  of  volun- 
».f«ry  nurse,  and  doing  whatever  miscellaneous  good  she 
Alight :  taking  upon  herself,  likewise,  to  give  advice  in 
all  matters,  especially  those  of  the  heart ;  by  which  means, 
as  a  person  of  such  propensities  inevitably  must,  she 
gained  from  many  people  the  reverence  due  to  an  angel, 
but,  I  should  imagine,  was  looked  upon  by  others  as  an 
intruder  and  a  nuisance.  Prying  further  into  the  manu 
script,  I  found  the  record  of  other  doings  and  sufferings 
of  this  singular  woman,  for  most  of  which  the  reader  is 
referred  to  the  story  entitled  "  THE  SCARLET  LETTER  "  ; 
and  it  should  be  borne  carefully  in  mind,  that  the  main 
facts  of  that  story  are  authorized  and  authenticated  by 
the  document  of  Mr.  Surveyor  Pue.  The  original  papers, 
together  with  the  scarlet  letter  itself,  —  a  most  curious 
relic,  —  are  still  in  my  possession,  and  shall  be  freely 
3xhibited  to  whomsoever,  induced  by  the  great  interest 
»f  the  narrative,  may  desire  a  sight  of  them.  J  must 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE.  37 

not  be  undei  stood  as  affirming,  that,  in  the  dressing  up 
of  the  tale,  and  imagining  the  motives  and  modes  of  pas- 
sion  that  influenced  the  characters  who  figure  in  it,  I 
have  invariably  confined  myself  within  the  limits  of  the 
old  Surveyor's  half  a  dozen  sheets  of  foolscap.  On  the 
contrary,  I  have  allowed  myself,  as  to  such  points,  nearly 
or  altogether  as  much  license  as  if  the  facts  had  been 
entirely  of  my  own  invention.  What  I  contend  foi^ia 
the  authenticity  of  the  outline. 

This  incident  recalled  my  mind,  in  some  degree,  to  its 
old  track.  There  seemed  to  be  here  the  ground- work  of 
a  tale.  It  impressed  me  as  if  the  ancient  Surveyor,  in 
his  garb  of  a  hundred  years  gone  by,  and  wearing  his 
immortal  wig,  —  which  was  buried  with  him,  but  did  not 
perish  in  the  grave,  —  had  met  me  in  the  deserted  cham 
ber  of  the  Custom-House.  In  his  port  was  the  dignity 
of  one  who  had  borne  his  Majesty's  commission,  and  who 
was  therefore  illuminated  by  a  ray  of  the  splendor  that 
shone  so  dazzlingly  about  the  throne.  How  unlike,  alas ' 
the  hang-dog  look  of  a  republican  official,  who,  as  the 
servant  of  the  people,  feels  himself  less  than  the  least, 
and  below  the  lowest,  of  his  masters.  What  his  own 
ghostly  hand,  the  obscurely  seen  but  majestic  figure  had 
imparted  to  me  the  scarlet  symbol,  and  the  little  roll  of 
explanatory  manuscript.  With  his  own  ghostly  voice, 
he  had  exhorted  me,  on  the  sacred  consideration  of  my 
61ial  duty  and  reverence  towards  him,  —  who  might  rea 
sonably  regard  himself  as  my  official  ancestor,  —  to  bring 
nis  mouldy  and  moth-eaten  lucubrations  before  the  public. 
"  Do  this,"  said  the  ghost  of  Mr.  Surveyor  Pue,  emphati 
cally  nodding  the  head  that  looked  so  imposing  within 
its  memorable  wig,  "  do  this,  and  the  profit  shall  be  all 


38  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

youi  own!  You  will  shortly  need  it;  for  it  is  njt  it> 
your  days  as  it  was  in  mine,  when  a  man's  office  was  a 
life-lease,  and  oftentimes  an  heirloom.  But,  I  charge 
you,  in  this  matter  of  old  Mistress  Prynne,  give  to  your 
predecessor's  memory  the  credit  which  will  be  rightfully 
due  !  "  And  I  said  to  the  ghost  of  Mr.  Surveyor  Pue,  — 
"  I  will !  " 

*On  Hester  Prynne's  story,  therefore,  I  bestowed  much 
thought.  It  was  the  subject  of  my  meditations  for  many 
an  hour,  while  pacing  to  and  fro  across  my  room,  or  trav 
ersing,  with  a  hundred-fold  repetition,  the  long  extent 
from  the  front-door  of  the  Custom-House  to  the  side- 
entrance,  and  back  again.  Great  were  the  weariness  and 
annoyance  of  the  old  Inspector  and  the  Weighers  and 
Gauge rs,  whose  slumbers  were  disturbed  by  the  unmer 
cifully  lengthened  tramp  of  my  passing  and  returning 
footsteps.  Kemembering  their  own  former  habits,  they 
used  to  say  that  the  Surveyor  was  walking  the  quarter 
deck.  They  probably  fancied  that  my  sole  object  —  and, 
indeed,  the  sole  object  for  which  a  sane  man  could  ever 
put  himself  into  voluntary  motion  —  was,  to  get  an  appe 
tite  for  dinner.  And  to  say  the  truth,  an  appetite,  sharp 
ened  by  the  east  wind  that  generally  blew  along  the  pas 
sage,  was  the  only  valuable .  result  of  so  much  indefati 
gable  exercise.  So  little  adapted  is  the  atmosphere  of  a 
Custom-House  to  the  delicate  harvest  of  fancy  and  sensi 
bility,  that,  had  I  remained  there  through  ten  Presiden 
cies  yet  to  come,  I  doubt  whether  the  tale  of  "  The 
Scarlet  Letter  "  would  ever  have  been  brought  before  the 
public  eye.  My  imagination  was  a  tarnished  mirror.  It 
jvould  not  reflect,  or  only  with  miserable  dimness,  the 
•  figures  with  which  I  did  my  best  to  people  it.  The 


THE  CUSTOM-ROUSE.  39 

characters  of  the  narrative  would  not  be  warmed  and 
rendered  mtdleable  by  any  heat  that  I  could  kindle  at  my 
intellectual  iorge.  They  would  take  neither  the  glow  of 
passion  nor  the  tenderness  of  sentiment,  but  retained  all 
the  rigidity  of  dead  corses,  und  stared  me  in  the  face 
with  a  fixed  and  ghastly  grin  of  contemptuous  defiance. 
'  What  have  you  to  do  with  u»  ?  "  that  expression  seemed 
to  say.  "  The  little  power  you  might  once  have 
possessed  over  the  tribe  of  unrealities  is  gone !  You 
nave  bartered  Jtjbr  n  p^ttii^g"^  the  public^ffold.  Go, 
then,  and  earn  your  wages  !  "  In  short,  the  almost  torpid 
creatures  of  my  o\vn  fancy  twitted  me  with  imbecility, 
and  not  without  fair  occasion. 

It  was  not  merely  during  the  three  hours  and  a  half 
^cla^ lined  as  his  share  of  my  daily  life, 
that  this  wretched  numbness  held  possession  of  me.  It 
went  with  me  on  my  sea-shore  walks,  and  rambles  into 
the  country,  whenever — which  was  seldom  and  reluct 
antly  —  I  bestirred  myself  to  seek  tnat  invigorating  charm 
of  Nature,  whirh  used  to  give  me  such  fresnness  and  ac 
tivity  of  thought,  the  moment  ihat  I  sieppeu  across  tne 
threshold  of  the  GUI  Manse.  Ihe  same  torpor,  as  re 
garded  the  capacity  for  intellectual  ericrt,  accompanied 
me  home,  and  weighed  upon  me  in  the  chamber  whicn  1 
most  absurdly  termed  my  study.  Nor  did  it  quit  me, 
when,  late  at  night,  I  sat  in  the  deserted  parlor,  lighted 
only  by  the  glimmering  coal-fire  and  the  moon,  striving 
to  picture  forth  imaginary  scenes,  which,  the  next  daj, 
mijrht  flow  out  on  the  brightening  page  in  many-hued 
description. 

If  the  imaginative  faculty  refused  to  act  at  such  an 
hour,  it  might  well  be  deemed  a  hopeless  case.      MOOD 


40  1HE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

light,  in  a  familiar  room,  falling  so  white  upon  the  carpoi, 
and  showing  all  its  figures  so  distinctly,—  making  every 
tbject  so  minutely  visible,  yet  so  unlike  a  morning  01 
noontide  visibility,  —  is  a  medium  the  most  a  uitable  foi 
a  romance-writer  to  get  acquainted  with  his  illusive 
guests.  There  is  the  little  domestic  scenery  of  the  well- 
known  apartment ;  the  chairs,  with  each  its  separate  indi 
viduality  ;  the  centre-table,  sustaining  a  work-basket,  a 
volume  or  two,  and  an  extinguished  lamp ;  the  sofa  ;  the 
book-case;  the  picture  on  the  wall; — all  these  details, 
so  completely  seen,  are  so  spiritualized  by  the  unusual 
light,  that  they  seem  to  lose  their  actual  substance,  ana 
become  things  of  intellect.  Nothing  is  too  small  or  too 
trifling  to  undergo  this  change,  and  acquire  dignity  there 
by.  A  child's  shoe ;  the  doll,  seated  in  her  little  wicker 
carnage  ;  the  hobby-horse  ;  —  whatever,  in  a  word,  has 
been  used  or  played  with,  during  the  day,  is  now  invested 
with  a  quality  of  strangeness  and  remoteness,  though 
still  almost  as  vividly  present  as  by  daylight.  Thus, 
therefore,  ^he  floor  of  our  familiar  room  has__become  a 
neutral  territory,  somewhere  between  the  real^world  ana 
Ji^^-landT^vlfeie1^ 

-xineet,  and  each  imbue  itselTwith _  the  naturg_oJjJifi.jQther. 
Ghosts"  might  enter  here,  without  affrighting  us.  Il 
would  be  too  much  in  keeping  with  the  scene  to  excite 
surprise,  were  we  to  look  about  us  and  discover  a  form 
beloved,  but  gone  hence,  now  sitting  quietly  in  a  streak  of 
this  magic  moonshine,  with  an  aspect  that  would  make 
us  doubt  whether  it  had  returned  from  afar,  or  had  never 
once  stirred  from  our  fireside. 

The  somewhat  dim  coal-fire  has  an  essential  influence 
in  producing  the  effect  which  I  wottld  describe.     It  throws 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE  4« 

hs  anobtrusive  tinge  throughout  the  room,  >vith  a  faim 
ruddiness  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  a  reflected 
gleam  from  the  polish  of  the  furniture.  This  warmer 
light  mingles  itself  with  the  cold  spirituality  of  the  moon 
beams,  and  communicates,  as  it  were,  a  heart  and  sensi-  . 
bilities  of  human  tenderness  to  the  forms  which  fancy 
summons  up.  It  converts  them  from  snow-images  into 
men  and  women.  Glancing  at  the  looking-glass,  we 
behold  —  deep  within  its  haunted  verge  —  the  smoulder 
ing  glow  of  the  half-extinguished  anthracite,  the  white 
moonbeams  on  the  floor,  and  a  repetition  of  all  the  gleam 
and  shadow  of  the  picture,  with  one  remove  further  from 
the  actual,  and  nearer  to  the  imaginative.  Then,  at  such 
an  hour,  and  with  this  scene  before  him,  if  a  man,  sitting 
all  alone^  cannot  dream  strange 


look  like  truth^he  need  never  tr^Jp  wri 

But,  for  myself,  during  the  whole  of  my  Custom- 
House  experience,  moonlight  and  sunshine,  and  the  glow 
of  fire-licfht,  were  just  alike  in  mv  regard  ;  and  neither 
of  them  was  of  one  whit  more  avail  than  the  twinkle  of 
a  talL  vv-candle.  An  entire  class  of  susceptibilities,  and 
a  gift  connected  with  them,  —  of  no  great  richness  or 
value,  but  the  best  I  had,  —  was  gone  from  me. 

It  is  my  belief,  however,  that,  had  I  attempted  a  differ 
ent  order  of  composition,  my  faculties  would  not  have 
been  found  so  pointless  and  inefficacious.  I  might,  foi 
instance,  have  contented  myself  with  writing  out  the 
narratives  of  a  veteran  shipmaster,  one  of  the  Inspectors, 
whori*  I  should  be  most  ungrateful  net  to  mention,  since 
scarcely  a  day  passed  that  he  did  not  stir  me  to  laughtoi 
and  admiration  by  his  marvellous  gifts,  as  a  story-teKer. 
Could  I  have  preserved  the  picturesque  force  </  his  style, 


42  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

Mid  the  humorous  coloring  which  nature  taught  him 
how  to  throw  over  his  descriptions,  the  result,  I  honestly 
believe,  would  have  been  something  new  in  literature, 
Or  I  might  readily  have  found  a  more  serious  task.  It 
a  was  a  folly,  with  the  materiality  of  this  daily  life  press 
ing  so  intrusively  upon  me,  to  attempt  to  fling  myself 
back  into  another  age  ;  or  to  insist  on  creating  the  sem 
blance  of  a  world  out  .f  airy  matter,  when,  at  every 
moment,  the  impalpable  beauty  of  my  soap-bubble  was 
broken  by  the  rude  contact  of  some  actual  circumstance. 
The  wiser  effort  would  have  been,  to  diffuse  thought 
and  imagination  through  the  opaque  substance  of  to-day, 
and  thus  to  make  it  a  bright  transparency ;  to  spirit 
ualize  the  burden  that  began  to  weigh  so  heavily ;  to 
seek,  resolutely,  the  true  and  indestructible  value  that 
lay  hiddi:;i  in  the  petty  and  wearisome  incidents,  and 
ordinary  chr.:icters,  with  which  I  was  now  conversant. 
The  fault  was  mine* — X^e^pcTT^&LJife  that  was  spread^ 
out  before  me  seemed  dull  and  commonplace,  only  be^ 
its  deeper  import.  A  better 


book  than  I  shall  ever  \vriteTwas  there ;  leaf  after  leaf 
presenting  itself  to  me,  just  as  it  was  written  out  by  the 
reality  of  the  flitting  hour,  and  vanishing  as  fast  as 
written,  only  because  my  brain  wanted  the  insight  and 
my  hand  the  cunning  to  transcribe  it.  At  some  future 
day,  it  may  be,  I  shall  remember  a  few  scattered  frag 
ments  and  broken  paragraphs,  and  write  them  down,  and 
find  the  letters  turn  to  gold  upon  the  page. 

These  perceptions  have  come  too  late.  At  the  in 
stant,  I  was  only  conscious  that  what  would  have  been 
a  pleasure  once  was  now  a  hopeless  toil.  There  was 
no  occasion  to  make  much  moan  about  this;  state  o/ 


TflK    CUSTOM-HOUSE. 

atfairs.  1  had  ceased  to  be  a  writer  of  tolerably  poof 
tales  and  essays,  and  had  become  a  tolerably  goodt  Sur- 
vejorof  the  Customs.  That  was  all.  But,  neverthe 
less,  it  is  anything  bi  t  agreeable  to  be  fcaunted  by  a 
suspicion  that  one's  intellect  is  dwindling  away;  or 
exhaling,  without  your  consciousness,  like  ether  out  of 
a  phial .  sc  that,  at  every  glance,  you  find  a  smaller 
and  less  volatile  residuum.  Of  the  fact,  there  could  be 
no  doubt ;  and,  examining  myself  and  others,  I  was  led 
to  conclusions,  in  reference  to  the  effect  of  public  office 
on  the  character,  not  very  favorable  to  the  mode  of  life 
in  question.  In  some  other  form,  perhaps,  I  may  here 
after  develop  these  effects.  Suffice  it  here  to  say,  that 
a  Custom-House  officer,  of  long  continuance,  can  hardly 
be  a  very  praiseworthy  or  respectable  personage,  for 
many  reasons;  one  of  them,  the  tenure  by  which  he 
holds  his  situation,  and  another,  the  very  nature  of  his 
business,  which  —  though,  I  trust,  an  honest  one  —  is  of 
such  a  sort  that  he  does  not  share  in  the  united  effort  of 
mankind. 

An  effect  —  which  I  believe  to  be  observable,  more  o; 
less,  in  every  individual  who  has  occupied  the  position 
—  is,  that,  while  he  leans  on  the  mighty  arm  of  the 
Republic,  his  own  proper  strength  departs  from  him, 
He  loses,  in  an  extent  proportioned  to  the  weakness  01 
force  of  his  original  nature,  the  capability  of  self-support. 
If  he  possess  an  unusual  share  of  native  energy,  or  the 
e nervating  magic  of  place  do  not  operate  too  long  upon 
him,  his  forfeited  powers  may  be  redeemable.  The 
ejected  officer  —  fortunate  in  the  unkindly  shove  that 
sends  him  forth  betimes,  to  struggle  amid  a  struggling 
tvoiid  —  may  return  to  himself,  and  become  all  that  he 


44  THE    SCARLET    LETTS*, 

nas  ever  been.  But  this  seldom  happens  He  usualh 
keeps  his  ground  just  long  enough  for  his  ?wn  ruin,  and 
is  then  thrust  out,  with  sinews  all  uastrung,  to  tottei 
along  the  iifficult  footpath  of  Jife  as  he  besi  may. 
Conscious  Oi  his  own  infirmity,  —  that  his  tempered 
steel  and  elasticity  are  lost,  —  he  forever  afterwards 
looks  wistfully  about  him  in  quest  of  support  external  to 
himself.  His  pervading  and  contini'il  hope  —  a  hallu 
cination,  which,  in  the  face  of  all  discouragement,  and 
making  light  of  impossibilities,  haunts  him  while  he 
lives,  and,  I  fancy,  like  the  convulsive  throes  of  the 
cholera,  torments  him  for  a  brief  space  after  death  —  is, 
that  finally,  and  in  no  long  time,  by  some  happy  coin 
cidence  of  circumstances,  he  shall  be  restored  to  office. 
This  faith,  more  than  anything  else,  steals  the  pith  arid 
availability  out  of  whatever  enterprise  he  may  dream  of 
undertaking.  Why  should  he  toil  and  moil,  and  be  at 
_u  much  trouble  to  pick  himself  up  out  of  the  mud, 
when,  in  a  little  while  hence,  the  strong  arm  of  his 
Uncle  will  raise  and  support  him?  Why  should  he 
work  for  his  living  here,  or  go  to  dig  gold  in  California 
when  he  »s  so  soon  to  be  made  happy,  at  monthly  inter 
vals,  with  a  little  pile  of  glittering  coin  out  of  his  Uncle's 
pocket  ?  It  is  sadly  curious  to  observe  how  slight  a 
taste  of  office  suffices  to  infect  a  poor  fellow  with  this 
singular  disease.  Uncle  Sam's  gold  —  meaning  no  dis 
respect  to  the  worthy  old  gentleman  —  has,  in  this 
respect  a  quality  of  enchantment  like  that  of  the  Devil's 
wages.  Whoever  touches  it  should  look  well  to  him 
self,  or  he  may  find  the  bargain  to  go  hard  against  him: 
involving,  if  not  his  soul,  yet  many  of  its  better  attri 
butes;  its  sturdy  force,  its  courage  and  constancy,  '** 


THE    CUSTOM-HTUSE.  4ft 

its  se,  f-reliance,  and  all  that  gives  the  emphasis  to 
character. 

Here  was  a  fine  prospect  in  the  distance !  Not  that 
the  Surveyor  brought  the  lesson  home  to  himself,  01 
admitted  that  he  could  be  so  utterly  undone,  either  by 
continuance  in  office,  or  ejectment.  Yet  my  reflections 
were  not  the  most  comfortable.  I  began  to  grow  mel 
ancholy  and  restless ;  continually  prying  into  my  mind, 
to  discover  which  of  its  poor  properties  were  gone, 
and  what  degree  of  detriment  had  »ueady  accrued  to  the 
remainder.  I  endeavored  to  calculate  how  much  longer 
I  could  stay  in  the  Custom-House,  and  yet  go  forth  a 
man.  To  confess  the  truth,  iv  vvas  my  greatest  appre 
hension, —  as  it  would  never  be  a  measure  of  policy  to 
turn  out  so  quiet  an  individual  as  myself,  and  it  being 
hardly  in  the  nature  of  a  public  officer  to  resign,  —  it 
was  my  chief  trouble,  therefore,  that  I  was  likely  to  grow 
gray  and  decrepit  in  the  Surveyorship,  and  become 
much  such  another  animal  as  the  old  Inspector.  Might 
it  not,  in  the  tedious  lapse  of  official  life  that  lay  before 
me,  finally  be  with  me  as  it  was  with  this  venerable 
friend,  —  to  make  the  dinner-hour  the  nucleus  of  the 
day,  and  to  spend  the  rest  of  it,  as  an  old  dog  spends  it, 
asleep  in  the  sunshine  or  in  the  shade  ?  A  dreary  look- 
forward  this,  for  a  man  who  felt  it  to  be  the  best  defini 
tion  of  happiness  to  live  throughout  the  whole  range  of 
bis  faculties  and  sensibilities!  But,  all  this  while,  1 
rraa  giving  myself  very  unnecessary  alarm.  Providence 
had  meditated  better  things  for  me  than  I  could  possibly 
imagine  for  myself. 

A  remarkable  event  of  the  third  year  of  my  Surveyor- 
ship  —  to  udopt  the  tone  of  "  P.  P."  —  was  the  election 


46  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

of  General  Taylor  to  the  Presidency.  It  is  essential,  in 
order  to  a  complete  estimate  of  the  advantages  3!  official 
life,  to  view  the  incumbent  at  the  in-coming  of  a  hostile 
administration.  His  position  is  then  one  of  the  most 
singularly  irksome,  and,  in  every  contingency,  disagree- 
nble,  that  a  wretched  mortal  can  possibly  occupy;  with 
seldom  an  alternative  of  good,  on  either  hand,  although 
what  presents  itself  to  him  as  the  worst  event  may  very 
probably  be  the  best.  But.it  is  ••!  sUaii^t-^xjMirience.^to 
-ft^mjanpf  prideandjiprisibiluyi  to  ^Mw^that  his  iriteres  t  s 
are«Avithin  the  controLof_indi^idu4vl«-whoHfieither  love  nor 
u n ders tand  him,  and  byjwJiQj^rr^^^-~Q^g-^^  thp  othe r 
must  needshappen,  he  would  rather  be  injured  than 
obliged.  Strange,  too,  for  one  who  has  kept  his  calm 
ness  throughout  the  contest,  to  observe  the  bloodthirsti- 
ness  that  is  developed  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  and  to  be 
conscious  that  he  is  himself  among  its  objects !  There 
are  few  uglier  traits  of  human  nature  than  this  tendency 
—  which  I  now  witnessed  in  men  no  worse  than  theii 
neighbors  —  to  grow  cruel,  merely  because  they  pos 
sessed  the  power  of  inflicting  harm.  If  the  guillotine, 
as  applied  to  office-holders,  were  a  literal  fact,  instead 
of  one  of  the  most  apt  of  metaphors,  it  is  my  sincere 
belief,  that  the  active  members  of  the  victorious  party 
were  sufficiently  excited  to  have  chopped  off. all  om 
heads,  and  have  thanked  Heaven  for  the  opportunity' 
It  appears  to  me — .who  have  been  a  calm  and  curious 
observer,  as  well  in  victory  as  defeat  —  tha>  this  fierce 
and  bitter  spirit  of  malice  and  revenge  has  never  distin 
guished  the  many  triumphs  of  my  own  party  as  it  now  dia 
that  of  the  Whigs.  The  Democrats  take  the  offices,  as 
i  general  rule,  because  they  need  them,  and  because  the 


THE    CUSTOM-HOUSE  4T 

practice  of  many  years  has  made  it  the.  law  of  political 
wartare,  which,  unless  a  different  system  be  proclaimed, 
it  were  weakness  and  cowardice  to  murmur  at.  But  the 
long  habit  of  victory  has  made  them  generous.  They 
know  how  to  spare,  when  they  see  occasion  ;  and  when 
they  strike,  the  axe  may  be  sharp,  indeed,  but  its  edge  is 
seldom  poisoned  with  ill-will ;  nor  is  it  their  custom  igno- 
miniously  to  kick  the  head  which  they  have  just  struck 
otf. 

In  short,  unpleasant  as  was  my  predicament,  at  best, 
I  saw  much  reason  to  congratulate  myself  that  I  was  on 
the  losing  side,  rather  than  the  triumphant  one.  If, 
'Heretofore,  I  had  been  none  of  the  warmest  of  parti 
sans,  I  began  now,  at  this  season  of  peril  and  adversity, 
to  be  pretty  acutely  sensible  with  which  party  my  predi 
lections  lay ;  nor  was  it  without  something  like  regret 
and  shame,  that,  according  to  a  reasonable  calculation 
of  chances,  I  saw  my  own  prospect  of  retaining  office 
to  be  better  than  those  of  my  Democratic  brethren.  Bui 
who  can  see  an  inch  into  futurity,  beyond  his  nose  ?  Mv 
ewn  head  was  the  first  that  fell ! 

The  moment  when  a  man's  head  drops  off  is  seldom 
or  never,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  precisely  the  most 
agreeable  of  his  life.  Nevertheless,  like  the  greatei 
part  of  our  misfortunes,  even  so  serious  a  contingency 
brings  its  remedy  and  consolation  with  it,  if  the  sufferei 
will  but  make  the  best,  rather  than  the  worst,  of  the 
accident  which  has  befallen  him.  In  my  particular 
case,  the  consolatory  topics  were  close  at  hand,  and 
indeed,  had  suggested  themselves  to  my  meditations  a 
considerable  time  before  it  was  requisite  to  use  them 
fa  view  of  my  previous  weariness  of  office,  and  vague? 


48  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

thoughts  of  resignation,  my  fortune  somewhut  resembled 
tkat  of  a  person  who  should  entertain  an  idea  of  com- 
mitting  suicide,  and,  although  beyond  his  hopes,  meet 
with  the  good  hap  to  be  murdered.  In  the  Custom-House, 
as  before  in  the  Old  Manse,  I  had  spent  three  years  ;  a 
term  long  enough  to  rest  a  weary  brain ;  long  enough  to 
break  off  old  intellectual  habits,  and  make  room  for  new 
ones ;  lojag^enough^and  too  long>to  have  lived  injm_u.n- 
na&tfal-state,  doing  wJ^l_wa5LJ£a]iy_oX_no^y^Lntage  noi 
delight  to  any  hurnan_  being,  jmd^withholding-  mvseH 
Jxo^tpj]3mtwQiLld^^t-kastrhaye  stilled  an  unquiet  im 

M    ,         •*• 

pulse..Jn  me.  Then,  moreover,  as  regtmTed  Ms  uncer 
emonious  ejectment,  the  late  Survey  or  was  not  altogether 
ill-pleased  to  be  recognized  by  the  Whigs  as  an  enemy ; 
since  his  inactivity  in  political  affairs,  —  his  tendency  to 
roam,  at  will,  in  that  broad  and  quiet  field  where  all 
mankind  may  meet,  rather  than  confine  himself  to  those 
narrow  paths  where  brethren  of  the  same  household 
must  diverge  from  one  another,  —  had  sometimes  mad*1 
it  questionable  with  his  brother  Democrats  whether  he 
was  a  friend.  Now,  after  he  had  won  the  crown  of  mar 
cyrdom,  (though  with  no  longer  a  head  to  wear  it  on,i 
the  point  might  be  looked  upon  as  settled.  Finally,  lit 
tle  heroic  as  he  was,  it  seemed  more  decorous  to  be  over 
thrown  in  the  downfall  of  the  party  with  which  he  had 
been  content  to  stand,  than  to  remain  a  forlorn  survivor, 
when  so  many  worthier  men  were  falling  ;  and,  at  last 
after  subsisting  for  four  years  on  the  mercy  of  a  hostiJ« 
ulnunistration,  to  be  compelled  .hen  to  define  his  position 
imew,  and  claim  the  yet  more  humiliating  mercy  of  a 
friendly  one. 

Meanwhile  the  press  had  taken  up  my  affair,  and  kepi 


THIS    CUSTOM-HOUSE. 


me,  for  a  week  or  two,  careering  through  the  public 
pnrts,  m  my  decapitated  state,  like  Irving's  Headless 
Horseman  ;  ghastly  and  grim,  ajidjj30tf4»g-to-be^buried, 
jis  a  joliticalTy^ead  manjought.  So  much  for  my  figu 
rative  self.  The  real  human  being,  all  this  time,  with  hi? 
head  safely  on  his  shoulders,  had  brought  himself  to  the 
camfortable  conclusion  that  everything  was  for  the  best  ; 
and,  making  an  investment  in  ink,  paper,  and  steel-pens, 
had  opened  his  long-disused  writing-desk,  and  was  again 
a  literary  man. 

Now  it  was,  that  the  lucubrations  of  my  ancient  pred 
ecessor,  Mr.  Surveyor  Pue,  came  into  play.  Rust) 
through  long  idleness,  some  little  space  was  requisite 
before  my  intellectual  machinery  could  be  brought  to 
wt>rk  upon  the  tale,  with  an  effect  in  any  degree  satis 
factory.  Even  yet,  though  my  thoughts  were  ultimately 
much  absorbed  in  the  task,  it  wears,  to  my  eye,  a  stern 
and  sombre  aspect  ;  too  much  unoiaddened  by  genial 
little  relieveji  hy  •t 


-influences,  which  soften  almost  every  scene  of  nature  and 
real  life,  and;  nndonhtrdly,  ^honlrf  nnftr'n  rrory  picture 
d£them.  This  uncaptivating  effect  is  perhaps  due  to  the 
period  of  hardly  accomplished  revolution,  and  still  seeth 
ing  turmoil,  in  which  the  story  shaped  itself.  It  is  no 
indication,  however,  of  a  lack  of  cheerfulness  in  the 
writer's  mind  ;  for  he  was  happier,  while  straying 
through  the  gloom  of  these  sunless  fantasies,  than  at 
any  time  since  he  had  quitted  the  Old  Manse.  Some 
of  the  briefer  articles,  which  contribute  to  make  up  the 
volume,  have  likewise  been  written  since  my  involuntary 
withdrawal  from  the  toils  and  honors  of  public  life,  and 
the  remainder  are  gleaned  from  annuals  and  magazines. 
4 


50  TH*.    S    1KLET    LETTER. 

of  such  antique  date  that  they  have  gone  round  tne  en 
cle,  and  coiae  back  to  novelty  again.*  Keeping  up  the, 
metaphor  of  the  political  guillotine,  the  whole  may  be 
considered  as  the  POSTHUMOUS  PAPERS  OF  A  DECAPITATED 
SURVEYOR  ;  and  the  sketch  which  I  am  now  bringing  to 
a  close,  if  too  autobiographical  for  a  modest  person  to 
publish  in  his  lifetime,  will  readily  be  excused  in  a  gen 
tleman  who  writes  from  beyond  the  grave.  Peace  be, 
with  all  the  world  !  My  blessing  on  my  friends  !  My 
forgiveness  to  my  enemies  !  For  I  am  in  the  realm  of 
quiet ! 

The  life  of  the  Custom-House  lies  like  a  dream  behind 
me.  The  old  Inspector,  —  who,  by  the  by,  i  regret  to 
say,  was  overthrown  and  killed  by  a  horse,  some  time 
ago;  else  he  would  certainly  have  lived  forever, —  he, 
and  all  those  other  venerable  personages  who  sat  with 
him  at  the  receipt  of  custom,  are  but  shadows  in  my 
view ;  white-headed  and  wrinkled  images,  which  my 
fancy  used  to  sport  with,  and  has  now  flung  aside  for 
ever.  The  merchants,  —  Pingree,  Phillips,  Shepard,  Up 
ton,  Kirnball,  Bertram,  Hunt,  —  these,  and  many  other 
names,  which  had  such  a  classic  familiarity  for  my  ear 
six  months  ago,  —  these  men  of  traffic,  who  seemed  to 
occupy  so  important  a  position  in  the  world,  —  how  lit 
tle  time  has  it  required  to  disconnect  me  from  them  all, 
not  merely  in  act,  but  recollection !  It  is  with  an 
effort  that  I  recall  the  figures  and  appellations  of  these 
few.  Soon,  likewise,  my  old  native  town  will  loom  upon 
me  through  the  haze  of  memory,  a  mist  brooding  over 


*  At  the  time  of  writing  this  article,  the  author  intended  to  publish, 
along  with  "  The  Scarlet  Letter,"  several  shorter  tales  and  sketches 
These  it  has  been  thought  advisable  to  defer. 


THE    (.rUSTOM-HOUSE.  1 

and  around  it ;  as  \f  it  were  no  portion  of  the  real  earth, 
tut  an  overgrown  village  in  cloud-land,  with  only  imag 
inary  inhabitants  to  people  its  wooden  houses,  and  walk 
its  homely  lanes,  and  the  unpicturesque  prolixity  of  its 
main  street.  Henceforth,  it  ceases  to  be  ajeaiiiJLof  my 
[ife.  -  j_gin  a  Citizen  of  somevvhere_e|se.  My  good 
townspeople  will  not  much  regret  me  ;  for  —  though  it 
has  been  as  dear  an  object  as  any,  in  my  literary  efforts, 
to  be  of  some  importance  in  their  eyes,  and  to  win  my 
self  a  pleasant  memory  in  this  abode  and  burial-place 
of  so  many  of  my  forefathers  —  there  has  never  been, 
for  me,  the  genial  atmosphere  which  a  literary  man 
requires,  in  order  to  ripen  the  best  harvest  of  his  mind. 
I  shall  do  better  amongst  other  faces  ;  and  these  familiar 
ones,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  will  do  just  as  well  without 
me. 

It  may  be,  however,  —  O,  transporting  and  triumphant 
thought !  —  that' the  great-grandchildren  of  the  present 
race  may  sometimes  think  kindly  of  the  scribbler  of  by 
gone  days,  when  the  antiquary  of  days  to  come,  among 
the  sites  memorable  in  the  town's  histc  ry,  shall  poinl 
nut  the  locality  of  THE  TOWN  PUMP  ! 


THE   SCARLET  LETTER. 


L 

THE  PRISON-DOOR. 

A  THKONG  of  bearded  men,  in  sad-colored  garment^ 
and  gray,  steeple-crowned  hats,  intermixed  with  women^ 
some  wearing  hoods,  and  others  bareheaded,  was  assem 
bled  in  front  of  a  wooden  edifice,  the  door  of  which 
was  heavily  timbered  with  oak,  and  studded  with  iron 
spikes. 

The  founders  of  a  new  colony,  whatever  Utopia  of 
human  virtue  and  happiness  they  might  originally  pro 
ject,  have  invariably  recognized  it  among  their  earliest 
practical  necessities  to  allot  a  portion  of  the  virgin  soil 
as  a  cemetery,  and  another  portion  as  the  site  of  a  prison. 
In  accordance  with  this  rule,  it  may  safely  be  assumed 
that  the  forefathers  of  Boston  had  built  the  first  prison- 
house  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  Cornhill,  almost  as 
seasonably  as  they  marked  out  the  first  burial-ground, 
on  Isaac  Johnson's  lot,  and  round  about  his  grave,  which 
subsequently  became  the  nucleus  of  all  the  congregated 
sepulchres  in  the  old  church-yard  of  King's  Chapel. 
Certain  it  is,  that,  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  after  the 
settlement  of  the  town,  the  wooden  jail  was  already 
marked  with  weather-stains  and  other  indications  of 


54  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

whbh  gave  a  yet  darker  aspect  to  its  beetle-browed  and 
gloomy  front.  The  rust  on  the  ponderous  iron-work  oi 
its  oaken  door  looked  more  antique  than  anything  else 
in  the  New  World.  Like  all  that  pertains  to  crime,  it 
seemed  n§yei_tD-Jaa-ve-knowrr-a  yeuth£ul__era.  Before 
this  ugly  edifice,  and  between  it  and  the  wheel-track 
of  the  street,  was  a  grass-plot,  much  overgrown  with 
burdock,  pig- weed,  apple-peru,  and  such  unsightly  vege 
tation,  which  evidently  found  something  congenial  in 
the  soil  that  had  so  early  borne  the  black  flower  of  civ 
ilized  society,  a  prison.  But,  on  one  side  of  the  portal, 
and  rooted  almost  at  the  threshold,  was  a  wild  rose-bush, 
covered,  in  this  month  of  June,  with  its  delicate  gems, 
which  might  be  imagined  to  offer  their  fragrance  and 
fragile  beauty  to  the  prisoner  as  he  went  in,  and  to  the 
condemned  criminal  as  he  came  forth  to  his  doom,  ifl 
.token  that  the  deep  heart  of  Nature^ f.nn Id  pjj^anrM^ 
kindtohim._ 

This  rose-bush,  by  a  strange  chance,  has  been  kept 
alive  in  history  ;  but  whether  it  had  merely  survived  out 
of  the  stern  old  wilderness,  so  long  after  the  fall  of  the 
gigantic  pines  and  oaks  that  originally  overshadowed 
it,  —  or  whether,  as  there  is  fair  authority  for  believing, 
it  had  sprung  up  under  the  footsteps  of  the  sainted  Ann 
Hutchinson,  as  she  entered  the  prison-door,  —  we  shal. 
net  take  upon  us  to  determine.  Finding  it  sc  directly 
on  the  threshold  of  our  narrative,  which  is  now  about  tc 
issue  from  that  inauspicious  portal,  we  could  hardly  do 
otherwise  than  pluck  one  of  its  flowers,  and  f lesent  it  to 
the  reader.  It  may  serve,  let  us  hope,  to^yrnboLizejojTie 
s\^get  morol^ blosspm,  that  may  be  found  along  the  track, 
Qjr^relieve  the  dajrkejun£jcJ«se-e£-^^  frail tv 

arid  .sorrow. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE.  56 


II. 

THE   MARKET-PLACE. 

* 
THE  grass-plot  before  the  jail,  in  Prist  j-lane,  on  a 

certain  summer  morning,  not  less  than  i«fo  centuries 
igo,  was  occupied  by  a  pretty  large  nt*moer  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Boston;  all  with  their  eyes  intently  fast 
ened  on  the  iron-clamped  oaken  door.  Amongst  any 
other  population,  or  at  la  later  period  in  tho  history  of 
New  England,  the  grim  rigidity  that  petrified  iLc  bearded 
physiognomies  of  these  good  people  would  h^e  augured 
some  awfui  business  in  hand.  It  could  have  betokened 
nothing  short  of  the  anticipated  execution  oi  some  noted 
culprit,  on  whom  the  sentence  of  a  legal  tribunal  had  but 
confirmed  the  verdict  of  public  sentiment.  But,  in  that 
early  severity  of  the  Puritan  character,  an  inference  of 
this  kind  could  not  so  indubitably  be  drawn.  It  might 
be  that  a  sluggish  bond-servant,  or  an  undutiful  chij 
whom  his  parents  had  given  over  to  the  civil  authority, 
was  to  be  corrected  at  the  whipping-post.  It  might  be, 
that  an  Antinomian,  a  Quaker,  or  other  heterodox  relig 
ionist,  was  to  be  scourged  out  of  the  town,  or  an  idle  and 
vagrant  Indian,  whom  the  white  man's  fire-water  had 
made  riotous  about  the  streets,  was  to  be  driven  with 
stripes  into  the  shadow  of  the  forest.  It  might  be,  too, 
tnat  a  witch,  like  old  Mistress  Hibbins,  the  bitter- 
tempered  widow  of  the  magistrate,  was  to  die  upon  the 
gallows.  In  either  case,  there  was  very  much  the  same 
•olemnitv  of  lemeanor  on  the  part  of  the  spectators ;  as 


6  THE    SCARLET    LETTED.. 

befittea  a  people  amongst  whom  religion  and  luw  wen; 
almost  identical,  and  in  whose  character  both  were  si 
thoroughly  interfused,  that  the  mildest  and  the  severest 
acts  of  public  discipline  were  alike  made  venerable  and 
awful.  Meagre,  indeed,  and  cold,  was  the  sympathy 
that  a  transgressor  might  look  for,  from  such  by 
standers,  at  the  scaffold.  On  the  other  hand,  a  penalt) 
which,  in  our  days,  would  infer  a  degree  of  mocking 
infamy  anc1  ridicule,  might  then  be  invested  with 
almost  as  stern  a  dignity  as  the  punishment  of  death 
itself. 

It  was  a  circumstance  to  be*  noted,  on  the  summei 
morning  when  our  story  begins  its  course,  that  the 
women,  of  whom  there  were  several  in  the  crowd, 
appeared  to  take  a  peculiar  interest  in  whatever  penal 
infliction  might  be  expected  to  ensue.  The  age  had 
not  so  much  refinement,  that  any  sense  of  impropriety 
restrained  the  wearers  of  petticoat  and  farthingale  fron 
stepping  forth  into  the  public  ways,  and  wedging  their 
not  unsubstantial  persons,  if  occasion  were,  into  the 
throng  nearest  to  the  scaffold  at  an  execution.  Morally, 
as  well  as  materially,  there  was  a  coarser  fibre  in  those 
wives  and  maidens  of  old  English  birth  and  breeding, 
than  in  their  fair  descendants,  separated  from  them  by 
a  series  of  six  or  seven  generations;  for,  throughout 
that  chain  of  ancestry,  every  successive  mother  has 
transmitted  to  her  child  a  fainter  bloom,  a  more  delicate 
and  briefer  beauty,  and  a  slighter  physical  frame,  if  not 
a  character  of  less  force  and  solidity,  than  her  own 
The  women  who  were  now  standing  about  the  prison- 
door  stood  within  less  than  half  a  century  of  the  period 
when  the  man-like  Elizabeth  had  been  the  not  alto 


HIE    MARKET-PLACE.  b"J 

Aether  unsuitable  representative  of  the  sex.  They  were 
her  countr}  women ;  and  the  beef  and  ale  cf  their  native 
land,  with  a  moral  diet  not  a  whit  more  refined,  entered 
largely  into  their  composition.  The  bright  morning 
sun,  therefore,  shone  on  broad  shoulders,  arid  w^ll- 
developed  busts,  and  on  round  and  ruddy  cheeks,  that 
had  ripened  in  the  far-off  island,  and  had  hardly  yet 
grown  paler  or  thinner  in  the  atmosphere  of  Ne\v 
England.  There  was,  moreover,  a  boldness  and  rotund 
ity  of  speech  among  these  matrons,  as  most  of  them 
seemed  to  be,  that  would  startle  us  at  the  present  day 
whether  in  respect  to  its  purport  or  its  volume  of 
tone. 

"  Goodwives,"  said  a  hard-featured  dame  of  fifty, 
"  I  '11  tell  ye  a  piece  of  my  mind.  It  would  be  greatly 
for  the  public  behoof,  if  we  women,  being  of  mature  age 
and  church-members  in  good  repute,  should  have  the 
handling  of  such  malefactresses  as  this  Hester  Prynne. 
What  think  ye,  gossips  ?  If  the  hussy  stood  up  for 
judgment  before  us  five,  that  are  now  here  in  a  knot 
together,  would  she  come  off  with  such  a  sentence  as 
the  worshipful  magistrates  have  awarded?  Marry,  1 
trow  not ! " 

"  People  say,"  said  another,  "  that  the  Reverend 
Master  Dimmesdale,  her  godly  pastor,  takes  it  very 
grievously  to  heart  that  such  a  scandal  should  have 
come  upon  his  congregation." 

"  The  magistrates  are  God-fearing  gentlemen,  but 
merciful  overmuch,  —  that  is  a  truth,"  added  a  third 
autumnal  matron.  "  At  the  very  least,  they  should 
have  put  the  brand  of  a  hot  iron  on  Hester  Prynne  'a 
roreuead.  Madam  Hester  would  have  winced  at  that.  I 


O&  THE    SCARLET    LET1ER. 

warrant  me.  But  she,  —  the  naughty  baggage,  —  little 
will  she  care  what  they  put  upon  the  bodice  of  her  gown  ! 
Why,  look  you,  she  may  cover  it  with  a  brooch,  or  such 
like  heathenish  adornment,  and  so  walk  the  streets  as 
brave  as  ever  !  " 

**  Ah,  but,"  interposed,  more  softly,  a  young  wife,  hold 
ing  a  child  by  the  hand,  "  let  her  cover  the  mark  as  she 
will,  the  pang  of  it  will  be  always  in  her  heart." 

"  What  do  we  talk  of  marks  and  brands,  whether  on 
the  bodice  of  her  gown,  or  the  flesh  of  her  forehead  ?  " 
cried  another  female,  the  ugliest  as  well  as  the  most  pit 
iless  of  these  self-constituted  judges.  "  This  woman  has 
brought  shame  upon  us  all,  and  ought  to  die.  Is  there 
not  law  for  it  ?  Truly  there  is,  both  in  the  Scripture  and 
the  statute-book.  Then  let  the  magistrates,  who  have 
made  it  of 'no  effect,  thank  themselves  if  their  own  wives 
and  daughters  go  astray  !  " 

"Mercy  on   us,  goodwife,"  exclaimed  a  man  in  the 

from_a  wholesome  fear  of  the  gallows  ?  That  is  the 
hardest  word  yet !  TTusl77~Tnyvr7-gossips  !  for  the  lock  is 
turning  in  the  prison  door,  and  here  comes  Mistress 
Prynne  herself." 

The  door  of  the  jail  being  fiung  open  from  within, 
ihere  appeared,  in  the  first  place,  like  a  black  shadow 
emerging  into  sunshine,  the  grim  and  grisly  presence 
of  the  town-beadle,  with  a  sword  by  his  side,  and  his 
staff  of  office  in  his  hand.  This  personage  prefigured 
and  represented  in  his  aspect  the  whole  dismal  severity 
of  the  Puritanic  code  of  law,  which  it  was  his  business 
to  administer  in  its  final  and  closest  application  to  the 
offender.  Stretch iner  forth  the  rffk-ial  staff  ID  his  iefl 


THE    MARKET-PLACE.  =•» 

hand,  lie  laid  his  right  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  young 
woman,  whom  he  thus  drew  forward  ;  until,  en  the 
threshold  of  the  prison-door,  she  repelled  him,  by  an 
action  marked  with  natural  dignity  and  force  of  charac 
ter,  and  stepped  into  the  open  air,  as  if  by  her  own  free 
will.  She  bore  in  her  arms  a  child,  a  baby  of  some 
three  months  old,  who  winked  and  turned  aside  its  little 
face  from  the  too  vivid  light  of  day ;  because  its  exist 
ence,  heretofore,  had  brought  it  acquainted  only  with  the 
gray  twilight  of  a  dungeon,  or  other  darksome  apartment 
of  the  prison. 

When  the  young  woman  —  the  mother  of  this  child 
—  stood  fully  revealed  before  the  crowd,  it  seemed  to  be 
her  first  impulse  to  clasp  the  infant  closely  to  her  bosom  , 
not  so  much  by  an  impulse  of  motherly  affection,  as  that 
she  might  thereby  conceal  a  certain  token,  which  was 
wrought  or  fastened  into  her  dress.  In  a  moment,  how 
ever,  wisely  judging  that  one  token  of  her  shame  would 
but  poorly  serve  to  hide  another,  she  took  the  baby  on 
her  arm,  and,  \yjtVi  n  Vmrm'nn-  V>jush,  and  ye^jL-hniig-hty 
smile,  and  a  glance  that  would  not  be  abashed,  looked 
around  at  her  townspeople  and  neighbors.  On  the  breasl 
of  her  gown,  in  fine  red  cloth,  surrounded  with  an  elab 
orate  embroidery  and  fantastic  flourishes  of  gold  thread, 
appeared  the  letter  A,  It  was  so  artistically  done,  and 
with  so  much  fertility  and  gorgeo 

that  it  had  all  the  effect  of  a  last  and  fitting  decoratuTr 
to  the  apparel  which  she  wore  ;  and  which  was  of  a 
splendor  in  accordance  with  the  taste  of  the  age,  but 
greatly  beyond  what  was  allowed  by  the  sumptuary  reg 
ulations  of  the  colony. 

The  young  woman  was  tall,  with  a  figure  of  pf  rfecl 


60  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

»<egcnce  on  a  large  scale.  She  had  dark  and  abundant 
Hair,  so  glossy  that  it  threw  off  the  sunshine  with  n 
gleam,  and  a  face  which,  besides  being  beautiful  ironi 
regularity  of  feature  and  richness  of  complexion,  had 
the  impressi  veness  belonging  to  a  marked  brow  and 
deep  black  eyes,  fika-ams  InflyJilfn,  tna,  ^frprjhhp  man 
ner  of  the  jejjHnine  gentility^ 

K£^LJ)y,jij^?teft--sta4€--.an4  _digaity,  rather  than  by_the 
d«Jicate,  evanescent.^and  indescribable  grace,  which  is 

And  neveTKad  Hester 


ryrme  appeared  more  lady-like,  in  the  antique  interpre 
tation  of  the  term,  than  as  she  issued  from  the  prison. 
Those  who  had  before  known  her,  and  had  expected  tc 
behold  her  dimmed  and  obscured  by  a  disastrous  cloud, 
were  astonished,  and  even  startled,  to  perceive  how  he; 
beauty  shone  out,  and  nmde~a  halojpf  the  misfortune  and 
ignominy  in  which  she  was  enveloped.  It  may  be~Ifue7 
Chat,  to  a  "sensitive  observer,  there  was  something  jgxnm- 
Her  attire,  which,  indeed,  she  had 


wrought  for  the  occasion,  in  prison,  and  had  modelled 
much  after  her  own  fancy,  seemed  to  express  the  attitude 
of  her  spirit,  the  desperate  recklessness  of  her  mood,  by 
its  wild  and  picturesque  peculiarity.  But  the  point  which 
drew  all  eyes,  and,  as  it  were,  transfigured  the  wearer, 
—  so  that  both  men  and  women,  who  had  been  familiarly 
acquainted  with  Hester  Prynne,  were  now  impressed  as 
if  they  beheld  her  for  the  first  time,  —  was  that  SCARLET 
LETTER,  so  fantastically  embroidered  and  illuminated 
upon  her  bosom.  ItJiad  the  effect  of  a  spel  ,  taking  hei 
wit  of  the  ordinary  relations  with  humanity,  and  enclos 
ing  her  In  a  sphere  by  herself. 

hath  o-ooJ  s\f\\\  at  her  needle,  that  's  certain. 


THE    MA11KET-PLACE. 

remarked  one  of  her  female  spectators'  "lul  did  ever  a 
woman,  before  this  brazen  hussy,  contrive  such  a  way 
of  showing  it !  Why,  gossips,  what  is  it  but  to  laugh  in 
the  faces  of  our  godly  magistrates,  and  make  a  pride 
cut  of  what  they,  worthy  gentlemen,  meant  for  a  punish 
ment?" 

"  It  were  well,"  muttered  the  most  iron-visaged  of  the 
old  dames,  "  if  we  stripped  Madam  Hester's  rich  gown 
off  her  dainty  shoulders  ;  and  as  for  the  red  letter,  which 
she  hath  stitched  so  curiously,  I  '11  bestow  a  rag  of  mine 
own  rheumatic  flannel,  to  make  a  fitter  one  ! " 

"  O,  peace,  neighbors,  peace  !  "  whispered  their  young 
est  companion  ;  "  do  not  let  her  hear  you  !  Not  a  stitch 
in  that  embroidered  letter,  but  she  has  felt  it  in  hex 
heart," 

The  grim  beadle  now  made  a  gesture  with  his  staff. 

"  Make  way,  good  people,  make  way,  in  the  King's 
name  !  "  cried  he.  "  Open  a  passage  ;  and,  I  promise 
ye,  Mistress  Prynne  shall  be  set  where  man,  woman 
and  child,  may  have  a  fair  sight  of  her  brave  apparel 
from  this  time  till  an  hour  past  meridian.  A  blessing  or 
the  righteous  Colony  of  the  Massachusetts,,  where  in 
iquity  is  dragged  out  into  the  sunshine  !  Come  along, 
Madam  Hester,  and  show  your  scarlet  letter  in  the 
market-place  ! " 

A  lane  was  forthwith  opened  through  the  crowd  of 
spectators.  Preceded  by  the  beadle,  and  attended  by 
an  irregular  procession  of  stern-browed  men  and  un 
kindly  visaged  women,  Hester  Prynne  set  forth  toward* 
the  place  appointed  for  her  punishment.  A  crowd  of 
eager  and  curious  school-boys,  understanding  little  of  th< 
matter  in  hand,  except  that  it  gr^ve  them  a  half-holiday 


6  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

fan  before  her  progress,  turning  their  heads  I'nntinuallj 
to  btare  into  her  face,  and  at  the  winking  baby  in  hei 
arms,  and  at  the  ignominious  letter  on  her  breast,  ll 
was  no  great  distance,  in  those  days,  from  the  prison- 
door  to  the  market-place.  Measured  by  the  prisoner's 
experience,  however,  it  might  be  reckoned  a  journey  of 
some  length  ;  foi,  haughty  as  her  demeanor  was,  she  rxr- 
chance  underwent  an  agony  from  every  footstep  of  those 
that  thronged  to  see  her,  as  if  her  heart  had  been  flung 
into  the  street  for  them  all  to  spurn  and  trample  upon. 
In  our  nature,  however,  there  is  a  provision,  alike  mar 
vellous  and  merciful,  that  the  sufferer  should  never  know 
the  intensity  of  what  he  endures  by  its  present  torture, 
but  chiefly  by  the  pang  that  rankles  after  it.  With 
almost  a  serene  deportment,  therefore,  Hester  Prynne 
passed  through  this  portion  of  her  ordeal;  and  came  to  a 
sort  of  scaffold,  at  the  western  extremity  of  the  market 
place.  It  stood  nearly  beneath  the  eaves  of  Boston's 
earliest  church,  and  appeared  to  be  a  fixture  there. 

In  fact,  this  scaffold  constituted  a  portion  of  a  penal 
machine,  which  now,  for  two  or  three  generations  past, 
has  been  merely  historical  and  traditionary  among  us, 
but  was  held,  in  the  old  time,  to  be  as  effectual  an  agent, 
in  the  promotion  of  good  citizenship,  as  ever  was  the 
guillotine  among  the  terrorists  of  France.  It  was,  ;r» 
short,  the  platform  of  the  pillory  ;  and  above  it  rose  the 
framework  of  that  instrument  of  discipline,  so  fash 
ioned  as  to  confine  the  human  head  in  its  tight  grasp, 
and  thus  hold  it  up  to  the  public  gaze.  The  very  ideal 
«»f  ignominy  was  embodied  and  made  manifest  in  this 
contrivance  of  wood  and  iron.  There  can  DC  no  out- 
rage,  methinks,  against  our  common  nature, —  whatever 


THE    MARKET-PLA.JE.  63 

be  the  delinquencies  of  the  individual, —  no  outrage 
more  flagrant  than  to  forbid  the  culprit  to  hide  his  face 
for  shame;  as  it  was  the  essence  of  this  punishment  to 
do.  In  Hester  Prynne's  instance,  however,  as  not  un- 
frequently  in  other  cases,  her  sentence  bore,  that  she 
should  stand  a  certain  time  upon  the  platform,  but  with 
out  undergoing  that  gripe  about  the  neck  and  confine 
ment  of  the  head,  the  proneness  to  which  was  the  most 
devilish  characteristic  of  this  ugly  engine.  Knowing 
well  her  part,  she  ascended  a  flight  of  wooden  steps,  and 
was  thus  displayed  to  the  surrounding  multitude,  at 
about  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulders  above  the  street. 

Had  there  been  a  Papist  among  the  crowd  of  Puritans, 
he  might  have  seen  in  this  beautiful  woman,  so  pictur 
esque  in  her  attire  and  mien,  and  with  the  infant  at  her 
bosom,  an  object  to  remind  him  of  the  image  of  Divine 
Maternity,  which  so  many  illustrious  painters  have  vied 
\vith  one  another  to  represent ;  something  which  should 
remind  him,  indeed,  but  only  by  contrast,  of  that  sacred 
image  _of  sinless  motherhood,  whose  infant  was  to  redeem 
the  world.  Here,  there  was  the  taint  of  deepest  sin  in 
the  most  sacred  quality  of  human  life,  working  such 
effect,  that  the  world  was  only  the  darker  for  this 
woman's  beauty,  and  the  more  lost  for  the  infant  that 
she  had  bornet 

The  scene  was  not  without  a  mixture  of  awe,  such 
as  must  always  invest  the  spectacle  of  guilt  and  shame 
in  a  feuow-creature,  Jhejbre- .society  shall  have  grown 
Corrupt  enough  to  smile,  instead  of  shuddering,  at  it. 
The  witnesses  of  Hester  Prynne's  disgrace  had  not  yet 
passed  beyond  their  simplicity.  They  were  stern  enough 
to  look  upon  her  death,  had  that  been  the  sentence,  WK& 


64 


VilE    SCARLET     Ltl'ULK 


out  a  nurmur  at  its  severity,  but  had  none  of  the  .ieart- 
lessness  of  another  social  state,  which  would  find  only  a 
theme  for  jest  in  an  exhibition  like  the  present.  Even 
had  there  been  a  disposition  to  turn  the  matter  into  ridi 
cule,  it  must  have  been  repressed  and  overpowered  by 
the  solemn  presence  of  men  no  less  dignified  than  the 
Governor,  and  several  of  his  counsellors,  a  judge,  a  gen 
eral,  and  the  ministers  of  the  town ;  all  of  whom  sat  or 
stood  in  a  balcony  of  the  meeting-house,  looking  down 
upcn  the  platform.  When  such  personages  could  con 
stitute  a  part  of  the  spectacle,  without  risking  the  maj 
esty  or  reverenco  of  rank  and  office,  it  was  safely  to  be 
inferred  that  the  infliction  of  a  legal  sentence  would 
have  an  earnest  and  effectual  meaning.  Accordingly, 
the  crowd  was  sombre  and  grave.  The  unhappy  culprit 
sustained  herself  as  best  a  woman  might,  under  the 
heavy  weight  of  a  thousand  unrelenting  eyes,  all  fast 
ened  upon  her,  and  concentrated  at  her  bosom.  It  was 
almost  intolerable  to  be  borne.  Of  an  impulsive  and 
passionate  nature,  she  had  fortified  herself  to  encounter 
the  stings  and  venomous  stabs  of  public  contumely, 
wreaking  itself  in  every  variety  of  insult;  but  there 
was  a  quality  so  much  more  terrible  in  the  solemn  moot  I 
of  the  popular  mind,  that  she  longed  rather  to  behold  all 
those  rigid  countenances  contorted  with  scornful  mem 
ment,  and  herself  the  object.  Had  a  roar  of  laughter 
burst  from  the  multitude,  —  each  man,  each  woman, 
each  ittle  shrill-voiced  child,  contributing  their  individ 
ual  parts,  —  Hester  Prynne  might  have  repaid  them  all 
with  a  bitter  and  disdainful  smile.  But,  under  the  leaden 
infliction  which  it  was  her  doom  to  endure,  she  felt  at 
moments,  as  if  she  must  needs  shriek  out  with  the  lull 


THE    MARKET-PLACE. 


65 


power  of  her  lungs,  and  cast  herself  from  the  scaffold 
down  upon  the  ground,  or  else  go  mad  at  once. 

Yet  there  were  intervals  when  the  whole  scene,  in 
which  she  was  the  most  conspicuous  object,  seemed  to 
vanish  from  her  eyes,  or,  at  least,  glimmered  indistinctly 
before  them,  like  a  mass  of  imperfectly  shaped  and  spec 
tral  images.  Her  mind,  and  especially  her  memory,  was 
preternaturally  active,  and  kept  bringing  up  other  scene* 
than  this  roughly  hewn  street  of  a  little  town,  on  the 
edge  of  the  Western  wilderness  ;  other  faces  than  were 
lowering  upon  her  from  beneath  the  brims  of  those  stee 
ple-crowned  hats.  Reminiscences,  the  most  trifling  ana 
immaterial,  passages  of  infancy  and  school-days,  sports, 
childish  quarrels,  and  the  little  domestic  traits  of  her 
maiden  years,  came  swarming  back  upon  her,  inter 
mingled  with  recollections  of  whatever  was  gravest  in 
her  subsequent  life  ;  one  picture  precisely  as  vivid  as 
another  ;  as  if  all  were  of  similar  importance,  or  all  alike 
a  play.  Possibly,  it  was  an  instinctive  device  of  her 
spirit,  to  relieve  itself,  by  the  exhibition  of  these  phantas 
magoric  forms,  from  the  cruel  weight  and  hardness  of 
the  reality. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  the  scaffold  of  the  pillory  was  a 
p:ii.t  of  view  that  revealed  to  Hester  Prynne  the  entire 
track  along  which  she  had  been  treading,  since  her  happy 
infaniy.  Standing  on  that  miserable  eminence,  she  saw 
again  her  native  village,  in  Old  England,  and  her  pater 
nal  home  ;  a  decayed  house  of  gray  stone,  with  a  per- 
erty-stricken  aspect,  but  retaining  a  half-obliterated  diield 
of  arms  over  the  portal,  in  token  of  antique  gentility. 
She  saw  her  father's  face>  with  its  bal  1  brow,  and  rev« 
erend  white  beard,  that  flowed  over  the  old -fashioned 


66 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 


Elizabethan  ruff;  her  mother's,  too,  with  the  look  ol 
heedful  and  anxious  love  which  it  always  wore  in  hei 
remembrance,  and  which,  even  since  her  death,  had  sc 
often  laid  the  impediment  of  a  gentle  remonstrance  IP 
her  daughter'.*  pathway.  She  saw  her  own  face,  glow 
ing  with  girlish  beauty,  and  illuminating  all  the  interior 
of  the  dusky  mirror  in  which  she  had  been  wont  to  gaze 
at  it.  There  she  beheld  another  countenance,  of  a  man 
well  stricken  in  years,  a  pale,  thin,  scholar-like  visage, 
with  eyes  dim  and  bleared  by  the  lamp-light  that  had 
served  them  to  pore  over  many  ponderous  books.  Yel 
those  same  bleared  optics  had  a  strange,  penetrating 
power,  when  it  was  their  owner's  purpose  to  read  the 
human  soul.  This  figure  of  the  study  and  the  cloister,  as 
Hester  Prynne's  womanly  fancy  failed  not  to  recall,  was 
slightly  deformed,  with  the  left  shoulder  a  trifle  higher 
than  the  right.  Next  rose  before  her,  in  memory's  pic 
ture-gallery,  the  intricate  and  narrow  thoroughfares,  the 
tall,  gray  houses,  the  huge  cathedrals,  and  the  public, 
edifices,  ancient  in  date  and  quaint  in  architecture,  of  a 
Continental  city;  where  a  new  life  had  awaited  her,  still 
in  connection  with  the  misshapen  scholar  ;  a  new  life, 
but  feeding  itself  on  time-worn  materials,  like  a  tuft  of 
green  moss  on  a  crumbling  wall.  Lastly,  in  lieu  of 
these  shifting  scenes,  came  back  the  rude  market-place 
of  the  Puritan  settlement,  with  all  the  townspeople  as 
sembled  and  levelling  their  stern  regards  at  Hester 
Prynne,  —  yes,  at  herself,  —  who  stood  on  the  scaffold 
of  the  pillory,  an  infant  on  her  arm,  and  the  letter  A,  in 
scarlet,  fantastically  embroidered  with  gold  thread,  upon 
her  bosom  ! 

Could  it  be  true  ?     She  clutched  the  child  so  fiercely 


THE  MARKET-PLACE.  ffl 

to  hei  breast,  that  it  bent  forth  a  cry ;  she  turned  bei «  yea 
downward  at  the  scarlet  letter,  and  even  touched  it  witc 
her  finger,  to  assure  herself  that  the  infant  and  the 
shame  were  real.  Yes'-  -  ;  ese  wore  her  realities, -- 
*11  else  had 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER 


ITT. 

THE  RECOGNITION. 

FROM  this  intense  consciousness  of  being  the  object 
of  severe  and  universal  observation,  the  wearer  of  the 
scarlet  letter  was  at  length  relieved,  by  discerning,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  a  figure  which  irresistibly 
took  possession  of  her  thoughts.  An  Indian,  in  his 
native  garb,  was  standing  there  ;  but  the  red  men  were 
not  so  infrequent  visitors  of  the  English  settlements, 
that  one  of  them  would  have  attracted  any  notice  from 
Hester  Prynne,  at  such  a  time;  much  less  would  he 
have  excluded  all  other  objects  and  ideas  from  her  mind. 
By  the  Indian's  side,  and  evidently  sustaining  a  com 
panionship  with  him,  stood  a  white  man,  clad  in  a 
strange  disarray  of  civilized  and  savage  costume. 

He  was  small  in  stature,  with  a  furrowed  visage, 
which,  as  yet,  could  hardly  be  termed  aged.  There  was 
a  remarkable  intelligence  in  his  features,  as  of  a  person 
who  had  so  cultivated  his  mental  part  that  it  could  not 
fail  to  mould  the  physical  to  itself,  and  become  manifest 
by  unmistakable  tokens.  Although,  by  a  seemingly  care 
less  arrangement  of  his  heterogeneous  garb,  he  had 
endeavored  to  conceal  or  abate  the  peculiarity,  it  was 
sufficiently  evident  to  Hester  Prynne,  that  one  of  this 
man's  shoulders  rose  higher  than  the  other.  Again,  at 
the  first  instant  of  perceiving  that  thin  visage,  and  the 
slight  deformity  of  the  figure,  she  pressed  her  infant  to 
her  bosom,  with  so  convulsive  a  force  that  the  poor  bain1 


THE    RECOGNITION.  *>i» 

uttered  another  cry  of  pain.     But  the  mother  did  not 
g^erc  to  hear  it. 

At  his  arrival  in  the  market-place,  and  some  time 
beibie  she  saw  him,  the  stranger  had  bent  his  eyes  on 
Hestei  Prynne.  It  was  carelessly,  at  first,  like  a  man 
chiefly  accustomed  to  look  inward,  aftd-4oavjipjiL  ejUeroaj^ 
matters  a~e  of  Tittle^ahieand  import,  unless  they  beat 
-^reIationT6"5bTnething  withinEis'iiiilld.  very  soon,  how- 
~ever,~his~look  became  keen  and  penetrative.  A  writhing 
horror  twisted  itself  across  his  features,  like  a  snake 
gliding  swiftly  over  them,  and  making  one  little  pause, 
with  all  its  wreathed  intervolutions  in  open  sight.  His 
face  darkened  with  some  powerful  emotion,  which,  nev 
ertheless,  he  so  instantaneously  controlled  by  an  effort 
of  his  will,  that,  save  at  a  single  moment,  its  expression 
might  have  passed  for  calmness.  After  a  brief  space, 
the  convulsion  grew  almost  imperceptible,  and  finally 
subsided  into  the  depths  of  his  nature.  When  he  found 
the  eyes  of  Hester  Prynne  fastened  on  his  own,  and 
saw  that  she  appeared  to  recognize  him,  he  slowly  and 
ralmly  raised  his  finger,  made  a  gesture  with  it  in  the 
air,  and  laid  it  on  his  lips. 

Then,  touching  the  shoulder  of  a  townsman  who  stood 
next  to  him,  he  addressed  him,  in  a  formal  and  courteous 
manner. 

44 1  pray  you,  good  Sir,"  said  he,  u  who  is  this  woman  ? 
—  •and  wherefore  is  she  here  set  up  to  public  shame?" 

"  You  must  needs  be  a  stranger  in  this  region,  friend," 
answered  the  townsman,  looking  curiously  at  the  ques 
tioner  and  his  savage  companion,  "else  you  would 
surely  have  heard  of  Mistress  Hester  Prynne,  and  he? 


THE    SCARLET    LETTEK. 

evil  doings.     She  hath  raised  a  great  scandal,  I  prjmise 
you,  ir«  godly  Master  Dimmesdale's  church." 

"\ou  say  truly,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  am  a  strau 
ger,  and  have  been  a  wanderer,  sorely  against  my  will 
I  have  met  with  grievous  mishaps  by  sea  and  Amd,  and 
have  been  long  held  in  bonds  among  the  heathen-folk, 
to  the  southward;  and  am  now  brought  hither  by  this 
Indian,  to  be  redeemed  out  of  my  captivity.  Will  it 
please  you,  therefor^,  to  tell  me  of  Hester  Prynne's, — 
have  I  her  name  rightly?  —  of  this  woman's  offences, 
and  what  has  biought  her  to  yonder  scaffold  ? " 

"  Truly,  friend ;  and  methinks  it  must  gladden  your 
heart,  after  your  troubles  and  sojourn  in  the  wilderness," 
said  the  townsman,  "  to  find  yourself,  at  length,  in  a 
land  where  ..iniquity  is  searched  out,  and  punished  in  the 
sight  of  rulers  and  people ;  as  here  in  our  godly  New 
England.  Yonder  woman,  Sir,  you  must  know,  was 
the  wife  of  a  certain  learned  man,  English  by  birth,  but 
who  had  long  dwelt  in  Amsterdam,  whence,  some  good 
time  agone,  he  was  minded  to  cross  over  and  cast  in  his 
lot  with  us  of  the  Massachusetts.  To  this  purpose,  he 
sent  his  wife  before  him,  remaining  himself  to  look  aftei 
some  necessary  affairs.  Marry,  good  Sir,  in  some  two 
years,  or  less,  that  the  woman  has  been  a  dweller  here 
in  Boston,  no  tidings  have  come  of  this  learned  gentle 
man,  Master  Prynne;  and  his  young  wife,  look  you 
being  left  to  her  own  misguidance " 

"Ah!  —  aha!  —  I  conceive  you,"  said  the  stranger 
with  a  bitter  smile.  "  So  learned  a  man  as  you  speak 
of  should  have  learned  this  too  in  his  books.  And  who, 
by  your  favor,  Sir,  may  be  the  father  of  yonder  babe  — 


THE    RF.COGNJTIOIV.  71 

it  is  somt  tnree  or  four  months  old,  I  should  judge  — 
which  Mistress  Prynne  is  holding  in  her  arms?" 

"Of  a  truth,  friend,  that  matter  remaineth  a  riddle; 
and  the  Daniel  who  shall  expound  it  is  yet  a-wanting," 
answered  the  townsman.  "  Madam  Hester  absolutely 
refuseth  to  speak,  and  the  magistrates  have  laid  their 
heads  together  in  vain.  Peradventure  the  guilty  one 
stands  looking  on  at  this  sad  spectacle,  unknown  of  man, 
and  forgetting  that  God  seesj}i«i." 

"  The  learned  man,"  observed  the  stranger,  with 
another  smile,  "should  come  himself,  to  look  into  the 
mystery." 

"  It  behooves  him  well,  if  he  be  still  in  life,"  responded 
the  townsman.  "  Now,  good  Sir,  our  Massachusetts 
magistracy,  bethinking  themselves  that  this  woman  is 
youthful  and  fair,  and  doubtless  was  strongly  tempted  to 
her  fall;  —  and  that,  moreover,  as  is  most  likely,  her 
husband  may  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  —  they  have 
not  been  bold  to  put  in  force  the  extremity  of  our  right 
eous  law  against  her.  The  penalty  thereof  is  death 
But  in  their  great  mercy  and  tenderness  of  heart,  they 
have  doomed  Mistress  Prynne  to  stand  only  a  space  of 
three  hours  on  the  platform  of  the  pillory,  and  then  and 
thereafter,  for  the  remainder  of  her  natural  life,  to  wear 
a  mark  of  shame  upon  her  bosom." 

4 A  wise  sentence!"  remarked  the  stranger,  gravely 
bowing  his  head.  "  Thus  she  will  be  a  living  sermor, 
against  sin,  until  tho  ignominious  letter  be  engraved 
upon  her  tomb-stone.  It  irks  me  nevertheless,  that  the 
partner  of  her  iniquity  should  not,  at  least,  stand  on  the 
scaffold  by  her  side.  But  he  will  be  known!  —  he  vail 
be  known  !  —  he  will  be  known.'  " 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

He  bowed  courteously  to  the   communicative  town«-- 
man,  and,  whispering  a  few  words  to  his  Indian  attend 
ant,  they  both  made  their  way  through  the  crowd. 

While  this  passed,  Hester  Prynne  had  been  standing 
on  her  pedestal,  still  with  a  fixed  gaae  towards  the 
stranger;  so  fixed  a  gaze,  that,  at  moments  of  intense 
absorption,  all  other  objects  in  the  visible  world  seerne  \ 
to  vanish,  leaving  only  him  and  her.  Such  an  inter 
view,  perhaps,  would  have  been  more  terrible  than  even 
to  meet  him  as  she  now  did,  with  the  hot,  midday  sun 
burning  down  upon  her  face,  and  lighting  up  its  shame ; 
with  the  scarlet  token  of  infamy  on  her  breast;  with 
the  sin-born  infant  in  her  arms :  with  a  whole  people, 
drawn  forth  as  to  a  festival,  staring  at  the  features  that 
should  have  been  seen  only  in  the  quiet  gleam  of  the 
fireside,  in  the  happy  shadow  of  a  home,  or  beneath  a 
matronly  veil,  at  church.  Dreadful  as  it  was,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  shelter  in  the  presence  of  these  thousand 
witnesses.  It  was  better  to  stand  thus,  with  so  many 
oetwixt  him  and  her,  than  to  greet  him,  face  to  face,  they 
two  alone.  She  fled  for  refuge,  as  it  were,  to  the  pub 
lic  exposure,  and  dreaded  the  moment  when  its  protection 
should  be  withdrawn  from  her.  Involved  in  thf3se 
thoughts,  she  scarcely  heard  a  voice  behind  her,  until  it 
had  repeated  her  name  more  than  once,  in  a  loud  and 
solemn  tone,  audible  to  the  whole  multitude. 

"  Hearken  unto  me,  Hester  Prynne ! "  said  the  voice. 

It  has  already  been  noticed,  that  directly  over  the  plat 
form  on  which  Hester  Prynne  stood  was  a  kind  of 
balcony,  or  open  gallery,  appended  to  the  meeting-house. 
It  was  the  place  whence  proclamations  were  wont  to  be 
made,  amidst  an  assemblage  of  the  magistracy,  with  al 


THE    RECOGNITION.  73 

the  ceremonial  that  attended  such  public  observances  in 
those  days.  Here,  to  witness  the  scene  which  we  arc 
describing,  sat  Governor  Bellingham  himself,  with  foiL 
sergeants  about  his  chair,  bearing  halberds,  as  a  guard  of 
nonor.  He  wore  a  dark  feather  in  his  hat,  a  border  of 
embroidery  on  his  cloak,  and  a  blacik  velvet  tunic  beneath; 
a  gentleman  advanced  in  years,  with  a  hard  experience 
written  in  his  wrinkles.  He  was  not  ill  fitted  to  be  the 
head  and  representative  of  a  community,  which  owed  its 
origin  and  progress,  and  its  present  state  of  development, 
not  to  the  impulses  of  youth,  but  to  the  stern  and  tempered 
energies  of  manhood,  and  the  sombre  sagacity  of  age ; 
accomplishing  so  much,  precisely  because  it  imagined 
and  hoped  so  little.  The  other  eminent  characters,  by 
whom  the  chief  ruler  was  surrounded,  were  distinguished 
by  a  dignity  of  mien,  belonging  to  a  period  when  the 
forms  of  authority  were  felt  to  possess  the  sacredness  of 
Divine  institutions.  They  \vere,  doubtless,  good  men, 
•just,  and  sage.  But,  out  of  the  whole  human  family,  it 
would  not  have  been  easy  to  select  the  same  number  of 
wise  and  virtuous  persons,  who  should  be  less  capable 
of  sitting  in  judgment  on  an  erring  woman's  heart,  and 
disentangling  its  mesh  of  good  and  evil,  than  the  sages 
of  rigid  aspect  towards  whom  Hester  Prynne  now  turned 
her  face.  She  seemed  conscious,  indeed,  that  whatever 
sympathy  she  might  expect  lay  in  the  larger  and  warme* 
heart  of  the  multitude ;  for,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  towards 
the  balcony,  the  unhappy  woman  grew  pale  and  trembled. 
The  voice  which  had  called  her  attention  was  that  ol 
the  reverend  and  famous  John  Wilson,  the  eldest  clergy 
man  of  Boston,  a  great  scholar,  like  most  of  his  contero- 
s  in  the  profession,  and  withal  a  man  of  kind  and 


74  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

genial  spirit.  This  last  attribute,  however,  had  been  less 
carefully  developed  than  his  intellectual  gifts,  and  wa? 
in  truth,  rather  a  matter  of  shame  than  self-congratnla 
tion  with  him.  There  he  stood,  with  a  border  of  grizzled 
locks  beneath  his  skull-cap;  while  his  gray  eyes,  uccus 
tomed  to  the  shaded  light  of  his*  study,  were  winking, 
lik«  those  of  Hester's  infant,  in  the  unadulterated  sun 
shine.  He  looked  like  the  darkly  engraved  portraits 
which  we  see  prefixed  to  old  volumes  of  sermons ;  and 
had  no  more  right  than  one  of  those  portraits  would  have, 
to  step  forth,  as  he  now  did,  and  meddle  with  a  question 
of  human  guilt,  passion  and  anguish. 

"  Hester  Prynne,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  I  have  striven 
with  my  young  brother  here,  under  whose  preaching  of 
the  word  you  have  been  privileged  to  sit,"  —  here  Mr. 
Wilson  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  a  pale  young 
man  beside  him,  —  "I  have  sought,  I  say,  to  persuade 
this  godly  youth,  that  he  should  deal  with  you,  here  in 
the  face  of  Heaven,  and  before  these  wise  and  upright 
rulers,  and  in  hearing  of  all  the  people,  as  touching  the 
vileness  and  blackness  of  your  sin.  Knowing  your  nat 
ural  temper  better  than  I,  he  could  the  better  judge  what 
arguments  to  use,  whether  of  tenderness  or  terror,  such 
as  might  prevail  over  your  hardness  and  obstinacy ;  inso 
much  that  you  should  no  longer  hide  the  name  of  him 
who  tempted  you  to  this  grievous  fall.  But  he  opposes 
to  me,  (with  a  young  man's  over-softness,  albeit  wise 
oeyond  his  years,)  that  it  were  wronging  the  very  nature 
uf  woman  to  force  her  to  lay  open  her  heart's  secrets  in 
such  broad  daylight,  and  in  presence  of  so  great  a  mul 
titude.  Truly,  as  I  sought  to  convince  him,  the  shame 
lay  in  the  commission  of  the  sin,  and  -not  in  the  showing 


TUB    RECOGNITION.  75 

qfjt  forth.  What  say  you  to  it,  once  again,  brolhci 
Dimmesdale  ?  Must  it  be  thou,  or  I,  that  shall  deal  wth 
this  poor  sinner's  soul  ?" 

There  was  a  murmur  among  the  dignified  and  rever 
end  occupants  of  the  balcony ;  and  Governor  Bellingham 
gave  expression  to  its  purport,  speaking  in  an  authoi  ita- 
tive  voice,  although  tempered  with  respect  towards  the 
youthful  clergyman  whom  he  addressed. 

"  Good  Master  Dimmesdale,"  said  he,  "  the  responsi 
bility  of  this  woman's  soul  lies  greatly  with  you.  It  be 
hooves  you,  therefore,  to  exhort  her  to  repentance,  and 
to  confession,  as  a  proof  and  consequence  thereof." 

The  directness  of  this  appeal  drew  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  crowd  upon  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale ;  a 
young  clergyman,  who  had  come  from  one  of  the  great 
English  universities,  bringing  all  the  learning  of  the  age 
into  our  wild  forest-land.  His  eloquence  and  religious 
fervor  had  already  given  the  earnest  of  high  eminence  in 
his  profession.  He  was  a  person  of  very  striking  aspect, 
with  a  white,  lofty,  and  impending  brow,  large,  brown, 
melancholy  eyes,  and  a  mouth  which,  unless  when  he 
forcibly  compressed  it,  was  apt  to  be  tremulous,  express- 
ing  both  nervous  sensibility  and  B  vast  power  of  self- 
restraint.  Notwithstanding  his  high  native  gifts  and 
scholar-like  attainments,  there  was  an  air  about  this 
young  minister,  —  an  apprehensive,  a  startled,  a  half- 
frightened  look,  —  as  of  a  being  who  felt  himself  quite 
astray  and  at  a  loss  in  the  pathway  of  human  existence, 
and  could  only  be  at  ease  in  some  seclusion  of  his  own. 
Therefore,  so  far  as  his  duties  would  permit,  he  trod  in 
the  shade  wy  by-paths,  and  thus  kept  himself  simple  and 
childlike  ;  coming  fcrth,  when  occasion  wa?,  with  a  fresh- 


76  THE    SCARLET    LETTEK. 


and  fragrance,  and  dewy  purity  of  thought,  which, 
as  many  people  said,  affected  them  like  the  speech  of  an 
angel. 

Such  was  the  young  man  whom  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Wilson  and  the  Governor  had  introduced  so  openly  to 
the  public  notice,  bidding  him  speak,  in  the  hearing  of 
all  men,  to  that  mystery  of  a  woman's  soul,  so^sacred 
even  in  its  pollution.  The  trying  nature  of  his  position 
drove  the  blood  from  his  cheek,  and  made  his  lips  trem 
ulous. 

"  Speak  to  the  woman,  my  brother,"  said  Mr.  Wilson. 
"  It  is  of  moment  to  her  soul,  and  therefore,  as  the  wor 
shipful  Governor  says,  momentous  to  thjnjs_ jQwiu__in 
whose  charge  hers  is.  Exhort  her  to  confess  the 
truth  ! " 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  bent  his  head,  in 
silent  prayer,  as  it  seemed,  and  then  came  forward. 

"  Hester  Prynne,"  said  he,  leaning  over  the  balcony 
und  looking  down  steadfastly  into  her  eyes,  "  thou  near 
est  what  this  good  man  says,  and  seest  the  accountability 
under  which  I  labor.  If  thou  feelest  it  to  be  for  thy  soul's 
peace,  and  that  thy  earthly  punishment  will  thereby  be 
made  more  effectual  to  salvation,  I  charge  thee  to  speak 
out  the  name  of  thy  fellow-sinner  and  fellow-sufferer! 
Be  not  silent  from  any  mistaken  pity  and  tenderness  for 
hnr. ;  for,  believe  me,  Hester,  though  he  were  to  step 
do\Aii  from  a  high  place,  and  stand  there  beside  thee,  on 
thy  pedestal  of  shame,  yet  better  were  it  so,  than  to  hide 
a  guilty  heart  through  life.  What  can  thy  silence  do 
for  him,  except  it  tempt  him  —  yea,  compel  him,  as  il 
were  —  to  add  hypocrisy  to  sin  ?  Heaven  hath  granted 
llftee  an  open  ignominy,  that  thereby  thou  mayest  worl 


THE    RECOGNITION.  •  « 

out  an  open  triumph  over  the  evil  withir  th«e,  i  nd  th* 
sorrow  without.  Take  heed  how  thou  deniest  to  him  — 
who,  pe  rchance,  hath  not  the  courage  to  grasp  it  for  hhr 
self —  the  bitter,  but  wholesome,  cup  that  is  now  pre 
sented  to  thy  lips  !  " 

The  young  pastor's  voice  was  tremulously  sweet,  rjch. 
deep,  and  broken.  The  feeling  that  it  so  evidently  man 
ifested,  rather  than  the  direct  purport  of  the  words,  causer* 
it  to  vibrate  within  all  hearts,  and  brought  the  listeners 
into  one  accord  of  sympathy.  Even  the  poor  baby,  a/ 
Hester's  bosom,  was  affected  by  the  same  influence ;  frv 
it  directed  its  hitherto  vacant  gaze  towards  Mr.  Dimme? 
dale,  and  held  up  its  little  arms,  with  a  half  pleased, 
half  plaintive  murmur.  So  powerful  seemed  the  minis 
ter's  appeal,  that  the  people  could  not  believe  but  that 
Hester  Prynne  would  speak  out  the  guilty  name ;  or 
else  that  the  guilty  one  himself,  in  whatever  high  or 
lowly  place  he  stood,  would  be  drawn  forth  by  an  inward 
and  inevitable  necessity,  and  compelled  to  ascend  the 
scaffold. 

Hester  shook  her  head. 

"  Woman,  transgress  not  beyond  the  limits  of  Heaven's 
mercy ! "  cried  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilson,  more  harshly 
than  before.  "  That  little  babe  hath  been  gifted  with  a 
voice,  to  second  and  confirm  the  counsel  which  thou  hast 
heard.  Speak  out  the  name  !  That,  and  thy  repentance, 
may  avail  to  take  the  scarlet  letter  off  thy  breast." 

"  Never  !"  replied  Hester  Prynne,  looking,  not  at  Mr. 
Wilson,  but  into  the  deep  and  troubled  eyes  of  the 
younger  clergyman.  "  It  is  too  deeply  branded.  Ye 
cannot  take  it  off.  And  would  that  I  migbt  end  ore  his 
tgony,  as  wsll  as  r°ine!' 


78  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

"Speak,  *voman!"  saiii  another  voice,  coldly  and 
sternly,  proceeding  from  the  crowd  about  the  scaffold. 
"  Speak  ;  and  give  your  ch  1 1  a  father  !  " 

"  I  will  not  speak  ! "  answered  Hester,  turning  pa^e  as 
death,  but  responding  to  this  voice,  which  she  too  surely 
recognized.  "  And  my  child  must  seek  a  heavenly 
Father ;  she  shall  never  know  an  earthly  one  !" 

"  Shs  will  not  speak ! "  murmured  Mr.  Dimmesdale, 
who,  leaning  over  the  balcony,  with  his  hand  upon  his 
heart,  had  awaited  the  result  of  his  appeal.  He  now 
drew  back,  with  a  long  respiration.  "  Wondrous  strength 
and  generosity  of  a  woman's  heart !  She  will  not 
speak  !  " 

Discerning  the  impracticable  state  of  the  poor  culprit  a 
mind,  the  elder  clergyman,  who  had  carefully  prepared 
himself  for  the  occasion,  addressed  to  the  multitude  a 
discourse  on  sin,  in  all  its  branches,  but  with  continual 
reference  to  the  ignominious  letter.  So  forcibly  did  he 
dwell  upon  this  symbol,  for  the  hour  or  more  during 
which  his  periods  ware  rolling  over  the  people's  heads, 
that  it  assumed  new  terrors  in  their^  imagination,  find 
seemgjLtp  derive  its  scarlet  hue  from  the  flames  of  tin1 
infernal  rjit^  Hester  Prynne,  meanwhile,  kept  her  placo 
upon  the  pedestal  of -shame,  with  glazed  eyes,  and  an  air 
of  weary  indifference.  She  had  borne,  that  morning,  ail 
that  nature  could  endure ;  and  as  her  temperament  was 
not  of  the  order  that  escapes  from  too  intensp  suffering 
by  a  swoon,  her  spirit  could  only  shelter  itself  beneath  a 
stony  crust  of  insensibility,  while  the  faculties  ot  animal 
life  remained  entire.  In  this  state,  the  voice  of  the 
preacher  thundered  remorselessly,  but  unavailingly,  upon 
her  ears.  The  infant,  during  the  latter  portion  of  her 


.  THE   RECOGNITION.  79 

ordeal,  pierced  the  air  with  its  wailings  and  screams ; 
she  strove  to  hush  it,  mechanically,  but  seemed  scarcely 
to  sympathize  'with  its  trouble.  With  the  same  hard 
demeanor,  she  was  led  back  to  prison,  and  vanished 
from  the  public  gaze  within  its  iron-clamped  portal. 
It  was  whispered,  by  those  who  peered  after  her,  that 
the  scarlet  letter  threw  a  lurid  gleam  along  the  dark 
passage-way  of  the  interior. 


80  THE   SCARLET   LETTER. 


IV. 

THE   INTERVIEW. 

AFTER  her  return  to  the  prison,  Hester  Prynne  was 
found  to  be  in  a  state  of  nervous  excitement  that  de 
manded  constant  watchfulness,  lest  she  should  perpetrate 
violence  on  herself,  or  do  some  half-frenzied  mischief  to 
the  poor  babe.  As  night  approached,  it  proving  impos 
sible  to  quell  her  insubordination  by  rebuke  or  threats 
of  punishment,  Master  Brackett,  the  jailer,  thought  fit 
1o  introduce  a  physician.  He  described  him  as  a  man  of 
skill  in  all  Christian  modes  of  physical  science,  and  like 
wise  familiar  with  whatever  the  savage  people  could 
teach,  in  respect  to  medicinal  herbs  and  roots  that  grew 
in  the  forest.  To  say  the  truth,  there  was  much  need 
of  professional  assistance,  not  merely  for  Hester  herself, 
but  still  more  urgently  for  the  child ;  who,  drawing  its 
sustenance  from  tne  maternal  bosom,  seemed  to  have- 
drank  in  with  it  all  the  turmoil,  the  anguish  and  de 
spair,  which  pervaded  the  mother's  system.  It  nu\v 
writhed  in  convulsions  of  pain,  and  was  a  forcible  tyj.e, 
in  its  little  frame,  of  the  moral  agony  which  Hester 
Prynne  had  borne  throughout  the  day. 

Closely  following  the  jailer  into  the  dismal  apartment 
appeared  that  individual,  of  singular  aspect,  whose  pres 
ence  in  the  crowd  had  been  of  such  deep  interest  to  the 
wearer  of  the  scarlet  letter.  He  was  lodged  in  the  prison, 
not  as  suspected  of  any  offence,  but  as  the  most  conven 
ient  and  suitable  mode  of  disposing  of  him,  until  the  mag- 


THE    INTERVIEW.  81 

wtrates  should  have  conferred  with  the  Indian  sagamores 
respecting  his  ransom.  His  name  was  announced  as 
Roger  Chillingworth.  The  jailer,  after  ushering  him 
into  the  room,  remained  a  moment,  marvelling  at  the 
comparative  quiet  that  followed  his  entrance ;  for  Hester 
Prynne  had  immediately  become  as  still  as  death, 
although  the  child  continued  to  moan. 

"  Prithee,  friend,  leave  me  alone  with  my  patient," 
said  the  practitioner.  "  Trust  me,  good  jailer,  you  shall 
briefly  have  peace  in  your  house ;  and,  I  promise  you, 
Mistress  Prynne  shall  hereafter  be  more  amenable  to  just 
authority  than  you  may  have  found  her  heretofore." 

"  Nay,  if  your  worship  can  accomplish  that,"  answered 
Master  Brackett,  "I  shall  own  you  for  a  man  of  skill 
indeed !  Verily,  the  woman  hath  been  like  a  possessed 
one ;  and  there  lacks  little,  that  I  should  take  in  hand  to 
drive  Satan  out  of  her  with  stripes." 

The  stranger  had  entered  the  room  with  the  charac- 
i  .ristic  quietude  of  the  profession  to  which  he  announced 
himself  as  belonging.  Nor  did  his  demeanor  change, 
when  the  withdrawal  of  the  prison-keeper  left  him  face 
to  face  with  the  woman,  whose  absorbed  notice  of  him, 
in  the  crowd,  had  intimated  so  close  a  relation  between 
himself  and  her.  His  first  care  was  given  to  the  child  ; 
whose  cries,  indeed,  as  she  lay  writhing  on  the  trundle- 
bed,  made  it  of  peremptory  necessity  to  postpone  all  othei 
business  to  the  task  of  soothing  her.  He  examined  the 
infant  carefully,  and  then  proceeded  to  unclasp  a  lea  th 
em  case,  which  he  took  from  beneath  his  dress.  It  ap 
peared  to  contain  medical  preparations,  one  of  which  he 
mingled  with  a  cup  of  water. 

u  My  old  studies  in  alchemy,"  observed  he  ID  '  n\T 
fl 


83  THE    SCARLET   LETTER. 

sojourn,  for  above  a  year  past,  among  a  people  well  versed 
in  the  kindly  properties  of  simples,  have  made  a  bettet 
physician  of  me  than  many  that  claim  the  medical  degree. 
Here,  woman !  The  child  is  yours,  —  she  is  none  of 
mine,  —  neither  will  she  recognize  my  voice  or  aspect  aa 
a  father's.  Administer  this  draught,  therefore,  with 
thir.e  own  hand  " 

Hester  repelled  the  offered  medicine,  at  the  same  lime 
gazing  with  strongly  marked  apprehension  into  his  face. 

"  Wouldst  thou  avenge  thyself  on  the  innocent  babe  ?  " 
whispered  she. 

"  Foolish  woman ! "  responded  the  physician,  half 
coldly,  half  soothingly.  "  What  should  ail  me,  to  harm 
this  misbegotten  and  miserable  babe  ?  The  medicine  is 
potent  for  good ;  and  were  it  my  child,  —  yea,  mine  own, 
as  well  as  thine  !  —  I  could  do  no  better  for  it." 

As  she  still  hesitated,  being,  in  fact,  in  no  reasonable 
state  of  mind,  he  took  the  infant  in  his  arms,  and  him 
self  administered  the  draught.  It  soon  proved  its  ^fficacy, 
and  redeemed  the  leech's  pledge.  The  moans  of  the 
little  patient  subsided ;  its  convulsive  tossings  gradually 
ceased;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  as  is  the  custom  of 
young  children  after  relief  from  pain,  it  sank  into  a  pro 
found  and  dewy  slumber.  The  physician,  as  he  had  a 
fair  right  to  be  termed,  next  bestowed  his  attention  on 
the  mother.  With  calm  and  intent  scrutiny,  he  felt  her 
pulse,  looked  into  her  eyes,  —  a  gaze  that  made  her  he^rt 
shrink  and  shudder,  because  so  familiar,  and  yet  so 
strange  and  cold,  —  and,  finally,  satisfied  with  his  inves 
tigation,  proceeded  to  mingle  another  draught. 

"  I  know  not  Lethe  nor  Nepenthe,"  remarked  he  ;  "  but 
I  have  learned  many  ne  v  secrets  in  the  wilderness,  and 


THE    INTERVIEW.  83 

tien;  i&  one  of  them,  —  a  recipe  that  an  Indian  taught 
me,  in  requital  of  some  lessons  of  my  own,  that  were  as 
old  as  Paracelsus.  Drink  it!  It  may  be  less  soothing 
than  a  sinless  conscience.  That  I  cannot  give  thee.  But 
t  will  calm  the  swell  and  heaving  of  thy  passion,  like  oii 
thrown  on  the  waves  of  a  tempestuous  sea." 

He  presented  the  cup  to  Hester,  who  received  it  with 
a  slow,  earnest  look  into  his  face ;  not  precisely  a  look  of 
fear,  yet  full  of  diubt  and  questioning,  as  to  what  his 
purposes  might  be.  She  looked  also  at  her  slumbering 
child. 

"  I  have  thought  of  death,"  said  she,  —  "  have  wished 
lor  it,  —  would  even  have  prayed  for  it,  were  it  fit  that 
such  as  I  should  pray  for  anything.  Yet,  if  death  be  in 
this  cup,  I  bid  thee  think  again,  ere  thou  beholdest  me 
quaff  it.  See  !  It  is  even  now  at  my  lips." 

"  Drink,  then,"  replied  he,  still  with  the  same   cold 
composure.      "  Dost   thou   know  me   so    little,    Hester 
Prynne?     Are   my  purposes  wont   to   be   so   shallow? 
E^3n  if  I  imagine  a  scheme  of  vengeance,  what  could  I 
do  better  for  my  object  than  to  let  thee  live,  —  than  to 
give  thee  medicines  against  all  harm  and  peril  of  life,  — 
so  that  this  burning  shame  may  still   blaze    upon    thy 
bosom  ? "     As  he  spoke,  he  laid  his  long  forefinger  on 
the  scarlet  letter,  which  forthwith  seemed  tc  scorch  into 
Hester's  breast,  as  if  it  had  been  red-hot.     He  noticed 
her  involuntary  gesture,  and  smiled.     "  Live,  therefore, 
and  bear  about  thy  doom  with  thee,  in  the  eyes  of  men  I 
and  women,  —  in  the  eyes  of  him  whom  thou  didst  call  | 
thy  husband,  —  in  the  eyes  of  yonder  child!     And,  that  n 
thou  mayest  live,  take  off  this  draught." 

Without  lurther  expostulation  or  delay  Hostei  Prynne 


84  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

drained  the  cup,  and,  at  the  motion  of  the  man  of  skii 
seated  herself  on  the  bed  whore  the  child  was  sleeping- 
while  ho  drew  the  only  chair  which  the  room  afforded 
and  took  his  own  seat  beside  her.  She  could  not  bul 
tremble  at  these  prepajations  ;  for  she  felt  that  —  having 
now  done  aJ  that  humanity,  or  principle,  or,  if  so  it  were. 
fi  refined  cruelty,  impelled  him  to  do,  for  the  relief  of 
physical  suffering  —  he  was  next  to  treat  with  her  as  the 
man  whom  she  had  most  deeply  and  irreparably  injured. 

"  Hester,"  said  he,  "  I  ask  not  wherefore,  nor  how,  thou 
hast  fallen  into  the  pit,  or  say,  rather,  thou  hast  ascended 
to  the  pedestal  of  infamy,  on  which  1  found  thee.  The 
reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  It  was  my  folly,  and  thy  weak 
ness.  1,  —  a  man  of  thought,  —  the  book-worm  of  greaf 
libraries,  —  a  man  already  in  decay,  having  given  my 
best  years  to  feed  the  hungry  dream  of  knowledge,  — 
what  had  I  to  do  with  youth  and  beauty  like  thine  own  ' 
Misshapen  from  my  birth-hour,  how  could  I  delude  my 
self  with  the  idea  that  intellectual  gifts  might  veil  physi 
cal  deformity  in  a  young  girl's  fantasy  !  Men  call  me 
wise.  If  sages  were  ever  wise  in  their  own  behoof,  J 
might  have  foreseen  all  this.  I  might  have  known  that 
iis  I  came  out  of  the  vast  and  dismal  forest,  and  entered 
this  settlement  of  Christian  men,  the  very  first  object  tc 
meet  my  eyes  would  be  thyself,  Hester  Prynne,  stand  np 
up,  a  statue  of  ignominy,  before  the  people.  Nay,  from 
the  moment  when  we  came  down  the  old  church-steps 
together,  a  married  pair,  I  might  have  beheld  tl  e  bale-five 
of  that  scarlet  letter  blazing  at  the  end  of  our  path  !  " 

"  Thou  knowest,"  said  Hester,  —  for,  depressed  as  sh* 
was,  she  could  not  endure  this  last  quiet  stat  at  the  tokeo 


THK    INTERVIEW.  85 

of  her  yhame, —  ujhou  knp\yeaLJtlialJLwast  frank  witli 
thee.     I  felt  no  love,  nor  feigned  any." 

•'  True,"  replied  he.  "  It  was  my  folly !  I  have  suid 
it.  But,  up  to  that  epoch  of  my  life,  I  had  lived  in  ;iin. 
The  world  had  been  so  cheerless !  JMy  heart  was  a  hab 
itation  large  enough  for  many  guests,  but  lonely  and  chill, 
and  without  a  household  fire.  I  longed  to  kindle  one ! 
It  seemed  not  so  wild  a  dream,  —  old  as  1  was,  and  som 
bre  as  I  was,  and  misshapen  as  I  was,  —  that  the  simple 
bliss,  which  is  scattered  far  and  wide,  for  all  mankind  to 
gather  up,  might  yet  be  mine.  And  so,  Hester,  I  drew- 
thee  into  my  heart,  into  its  innermost  chaiwber,  and 
sought  to  warm  thee  by  the  warmth  which  thy  presence 
made  there ! " 

"  I  have  "greatly  wronged  thee,"  murmured  Hester. 

"  We  have  wronged  each  other,"  answered  he.  "  Mine 
\vas  the  first  wrong,  when  I  betrayed  thy  budding  youth 
into  a  false  and  unnatural  relation  with  my  decay. 
Therefore,  as  a  man  who  has  not  thought  and  philoso 
phized  in  vain,  I  seek  no  vengeance,  plot  no  evil  against 
thee.  Between  thee  and  me,  the  scale  hangs  fairly  bal 
anced.  But,  Hester,  the  man  lives  who  has  wronged  us 
both  !  Who  is  he  ? " 

"  Ask  me  not !  "  replied  Hester  Prynne,  looking  firmly 
mto  his  face.  "  That  thou  shalt  never  know !  " 

"  Never,  sayest  thou  ? "  rejoined  he,  with  a  smile  ol 
dark  and  self-relying  intelligence.  "  Never  know  him  ! 
Believe  me,  Hester,  there  are  few  things,  —  whether  in 
the  outward  world,  or,  to  a  certain  depth,  in  the  invisible 
spheie  of  thought,  —  few  things  hidden  from  the  man 
who  devotes  himself  earnestly  and  unreservedly  to  the 
solution  of  a  mystery.  Thou  mayest  cover  up  thy  secret 


86  -HE  SCARLET  LETT 

trom  the  prying  multitude.  Thou  mayest  conceal  it,  tjc> 
from  the  ministers  and  magistrates,  even  as  thou  didsi 
this  day,  when  they  sought  to  wrench  the  name  out  ol 
thy  heart,  and  give  thee  a  partner  on  thy  pedestal.  But, 
as  for  me,  I  come  to  the  inquest  with  other  senses  thtn 
they  possess.  I  shall  seek  this  man,  as  I  have  sough'. 
truth  in  books ;  as  I  have  sought  gold  in  alchemy. 
There  is  a  sympathy  that  will  make  me  conscious  of  him, 
I  shall  see  him  tremble.  I  shall  feel  myself  shudder 
suddenly  and  unawares.  Sooner  or  later,  he  must  needs 
be  mine ! " 

The  eyes  of  the  wrinkled  scholar  glowed  so  intensely 
upon  her,  that  Hester  Prynne  clasped  her  hands  over  her 
heart,  dreading  lest  he  should  read  the  secret  there  at 
once. 

"  Thou  wilt  not  reveal  his  name  ?  Not  the  less  he  is 
mine,"  resumed  he,  with  a  look  of  confidence,  as  if  des 
tiny  were  at  one  with  him.  "  He  bears  no  letter  of  in 
famy  wrought  into  his  garment,  as  thou  dost ;  but  I  shall 
read  it  on  his  heart.  Yet  fear  not  for  him  !  Think  not 
that  I  shall  interfeje-with  Honvon'a^nvn  method  of  retri 
bution,  or,  to  my  own  loss,  betray  him  to  the  gripe  of 
human  law^  Neitherdo  thou  imagine  thatTshirtt  con 
trive  aught  against  his  life;  ho,  nor  against  his  fame,  if, 
as  I  judge,  he  be  a  man  of  fair  repute.  Let  him  live ! 
Let  him  hide  himself  in  outward  honor,  if  he  may ! 
Not  the  less  he  shall  be  mine !  " 

"  Thy  acts  are  like  mercy,"  said  Hester,  bewildered 
and  appalled.  "  But  thy  words  interpret  thee  as  a  ter« 
ror !  " 

"  One  thing,  thou  that  wast  my  wife,  I  would  enjoin 
upon  thee,  '  continued  the  scholar.  "  Thou  hast  kept  the 


THE    INTERVIEW.  l 

<jecret  of  thy  paramour.  Keep,  likewise,  mine!  There 
are  none  in  this  land  that  know  me.  Breathe  not,  to  any 
human  soul,  that  thou  didst  ever  call  me  husband  !  Here, 
on  this  wild  outskirt  of  the  earth,  I  shall  pitch  my  tent; 
fc.*,  elsewhere  a  wanderer,  and  isolated  from  human  in 
terests.  I  find  here  a  woman,  a  man,  a  child,  amongst 
whom  and  myself  there  exist  the  closest  ligaments.  No 
matter  whether  of  love  or  hate  ;  no  matter  whether  of 
right  or  wrong  !  Thou  and  thine,  Hester  Prynne,  belong 
to  me.  My  home  is  where  thou  art,  and  where  he  is. 
But  betray  me  not !  " 

"  Wherefore  dost  thou  desire  it  ? "  inquired  Hester, 
shrinking,  she  hardly  knew  why,  from  this  secret  bond. 
"  Why  not  announce  thyself  openly,  and  cast  me  off  at 
once  ? " 

"  It  may  be,"  he  replied,  "  because  I  will  not  encounter 
the?  dishonor  that  besmirches  the  husband  of  a  faithless 
woman.  It  maybe  for  other  reasons.  Enough^  js_my__ 
purpose  to  liveand  die  unknown.  Let,  therefore,  thy 
husband  be  to  the  world  as  one  already  dead,  and  of 
whom  no  tidings  shall  ever  come.  Recognize  me  not, 
by  word,  by  sign,  by  look !  Breathe  not  the  secret, 
above  all,  to  the  man  thou  wottest  of.  Should st  thou  fail 
ne  in  this,  beware !  His  fame,  his  position,  his  life,  wiij 
be  in  my  hands.  Beware  !  " 

"  I  will  keep  thy  secret,  us  I  have  his,"  said  Hester. 

"  Swear  it !  "  rejoined  he. 

And  she  took  the  oath. 

44  And  now,  Mistress  Prynne,"  said  old  Roger  Chii- 
Mngworth,  as  he  was  hereafter  to  be  named,  "  1  leave 
Viee  alone ;  alone  with  thy  infant,  and  the  scarlet  letter .' 
How  is  it,  Hester?  Doth  thy  sentence  bind  thee  to 


88  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

wear  the  token  in  thy  sleep  ?  Art  thou  not  afraid  of 
nightmares  and  hideous  dreams  ?  " 

"  Why  dost  thou  smile  so  at  me  ? "  inquired  Hester 
troubled  at  the  expression  of  his  eyes.  "  Art  thou  like 
the  Black  Man  that  haunts  the  forest  round  about  us  ? 
Hast  thou  enticed  me  into  a  bond  that  will  prove  the 
ruin  of  my  soul  ?  " 

"  Not  thy  soul,1  he  answered,  with  a  nether  smile. 
*  No,  not  thine ! n 


HESTER    Al    HER    NEEDLE. 


V. 

HESTER  AT  HER  NEEDLE. 

HESTLR  PRYNNE'S  term  of  confinement  was  now  at 
an  end.  Her  prison-door  was  thrown  open,  and  she 
came  forth  into  the  sunshine,  which,  falling  on  all 
alike,  seemed,  to  her  sick  and  morbid  heart,  as  if  meant 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  reveal  the  scarlet  letter  on 
her  breast.  Perhaps  there  was  a  more  real  torture  in 
her  first  unattended  footsteps  from  the  threshold  of  the 
prison,  than  even  in  the  procession  and  spectacle  that 
have  been  described,  where  she  was  made  the  common 
infamy,  at  which  all  mankind  was  summoned  to  point 
its  finger.  Then,  she  was  supported  by  an  unnatural 
tension  of  the  nerves,  and  by  all  the  combative  energy 
of  her  character,  which  enabled  her  to  convert  the  scene 
into  a  kind  of  lurid  triumph.  It  was,  moreover,  a  sepa 
rate  and  insulated  event,  to  occur  but  once  in  her  life 
time,  and  to  meet  which,  therefore,  reckless  of  economy, 
she  might  call  up  the  vital  strength  that  would  have 
sufficed  for  many  quiet  years.  The  very  law  that  con 
demned  her  —  a  giant  of  stern  features,  but  with  vigor 
tc  support,  as  well  as  to  annihilate,  in  his  iron  arm  — 
had  held  her  up,  through  the  terrible  ordeal  of  her 
ignominy.  But  now,  with  this  unattended  walk  frcrh 
her  prison-door,  began  the  daily  custom ;  and  she  must 
either  sustain  and  carry  it  forward  by  the  ordinary 
resources  of  her  nature,  or  sink  beneath  it.  She 
could  no  loi  o-er  borrow  from  the  future  to  help  hn 


»H)  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

through  the  present  grief.  To  inorrow  would  bring  its 
own  trial  with  it;  so  would  the  next  day,  and  so  would 
the  next ;  each  its  own  trial,  and  yet  the  very  same  that 
was  now  so  unutterably  grievous  to  be  borne.  The 
days  of  the  far-off  future  would  toil  onward,  still  with 
the  same  burden  for  her  to  take  up,  and  bear  along  with 
her,  but  never  to  fling  down ;  for  the  accumulating  days, 
and  added  years,  would  pile  up  their  misery  upon  the 
heap  of  shame.  Throughout  them  all,  giving  up  her 
individuality,  she  would  become  the  general  symbol  at 
which  the  preacher  and  moralist  might  point,  and  in  which 
they  might  vivify  and  embody  their  images  of  woman's 
frailty  and  sinful  passion.  Thus  the  young  and  pure 
would  be  taught  to  look  at  her,  with  the  scarlet  letter 
flaming  on  her  breast,  —  at  her,  the  child  of  honorable 
parents,  —  at  her,  the  mother  of  a  babe,  that  would 
hereafter  be  a  woman,  —  at  her,  who  had  once  been 
innocent,  —  as  the  figure,  the  body,  the  reality  of  sin. 
And  over  her  grave,  the  infamy  that  she  must  carry 
thither  would  be  her  only  monument. 

It  may  seem  marvellous,  that,  with  the  world  before 
her, —  kept  by  no  restrictive  clause  of  her  condemnation 
within  the  limits  of  the  Puritan  settlement,  so  remote 
and  so  obscure,  —  free  to  return  to  her  birth-place,  or  to 
any  other  European  land,  and  there  hide  her  character 
and  identity  under  a  new  exterior,  is  completely  as  if 
emerging  into  another  state  of  bci  — and  having  also 
the  passes  of  the  dark,  inscrut;  j  forest  open  to  her, 
where  the  wildness  of  her  nature  might  assimilate 
itself  with  a  people  whose  customs  and  life  were  alien 
from  the  law  that  had  condemned  her,  —  it  may  seem 
marvellous,  that  this  woman  should  still  call  that  place 


HESTER    AT    HER   NEEDLE.  91 

h«;i  home,  where,  and  where  only,  she  must  needs  be 
ihe  type  of  shame.  ^BuMkjere^sji  fatality,  a  feeling-  so 
irresistible  and  inevitable  that  it  has  thelbrce  of  doom, 
vhich  almost  invariably  compels  human  beings  to  linger 
arcund  and  haimj^_ghpst-like,  the  Tspdl  vvli 


has  given  the~coT6r  to  JthejjLlifeJimej 
and  still  the  more  nr^sis  tibryrthe^darker  the  tinge  that 
saddens  it.  Her  sin,  her  ignominy,  were  the  roots 
which  she  had  struck  into  the  soil.  It  was  as  if  a 
new  birth,  with  stronger  assimilations  than  .the  first, 
had  converted  the  forest-land,  still  so  uncongenial  to 
every7  other  pilgrim  and  wa'nderer,  into  Hester  Prynne's 
wild  and  dreary,  but  life-long  home.  All  other  scenes 
of  earth  —  even  that  village  of  rural  England,  where 
happy  infancy  and  stainless  maidenhood  seemed  yet  to 
be  in  her  mother's  keeping,  like  garments  put  off  long 
ago  —  were  foreign  to  her,  in  comparison.  The  chain 
that  bound  her  here  was  of  iron  links,  and  galling  to  hei 
inmost  soul,  but  could  never  be  broken. 

It  might  be,  too,  —  doubtless  it  was  so,  although  she 
hid  the  secret  from  herself,  and  grew  pale  whenever  it 
struggled  out  of  her  heart,  like  a  serpent  from  its  hole, 
—  it  might  be  that  another  feeling  kept  her  within  the 
scene  and  pathway  that  had  been  so  fatal.  There 
dwelt,  there  trode  the  feet  of  one  with  whom  she 
deemed  herself  connected  in  a  union,  that,  unrecognized 
on  earth,  would  bring  them  together  before  the  bar  cf 
final  judgment,  and  make  that  their  marriage-altar,  for 
a  joint  futurity  of  endless  retribution.  Over  and  ovei 
again,  the  tempter  of  souls  had  thrash  this  idea  upon 
Hester's  contemplation,  and  laughed  at  the  passionate 
»Q<!  desporate  joy  with  which  she  seized,  and  then 


THE    SCARLET    LETT1R. 


strove  te  cast  it  from  her.  She  barely  looked  the  idea 
in  the  face,  and  hastened  to  bar  it  in  its  dungeon. 
What  she  compelled  herself  to  believe,  —  what,  finally, 
she  reasoned  upon,  as  her  motive  for  continuing  a  resi 
dent  of  New  England,  —  was  half  a  truth,  and  half  a 
so,lf-delusion.  Here,  she  said  to  herself,  had  been  the 
scene  of  her  guilt,  and  here  should  be  the  scene  of  her 
earthly  punishment  ;  and  so,  perchance,  the  torture  of 
her  daily  shame  would  at  length  purge  her  soul,  and 
work  out  another  purity  than  that  which  she  had  lost  ; 
more  saint-like,  because  the  result  of  martyrdom. 

Hester  Prynne,  therefore,  did  not  flee.  On  the  out 
skirts  of  the  town,  within  the  verge  of  the  peninsula,  but 
not  in  close  vicinity  to  any  other  habitation,  there  way 
a  small  thatched  cottage.  It  had  been  built  by  an  earlier 
settler,  and  abandoned,  because  the  soil  about  it  was  too 
sterile  for  cultivation,  while  its  comparative  remoteness 
put  it  out  of  the  sphere  of  that  social  activity  which 
already  marked  the  habits  of  the  emigrants.  It  stood  on 
the  shore,  looking  across  a  basin  of  the  sea  at  the  forest- 
covered  hills,  towards  the  west.  A  clump  of  scrubby, 
trees,  such  as  alone  grew  on  the  peninsula,  did  not  so 
much  conceal  the  cottage  from  view,  as  seem  to  denote 
that  here  was  some  object  which  would  fain  have  been, 
or  at  least  ought  to  be,  concealed.  In  this  little,  lone 
some  dwelling,  with  some  slender  means  that  she  pos 
sessed,  and  by  the  license  of  the  magistrates,  who  still 
kept  an  inquisitorial  watch  over  her,  Hester  established 
herself,  with  her  infant  child.  A  mystic  shadow  ot 
suspicion  immediately  attached  itself  to  the  spot.  Chil 
dren,  too  young  to  comprehend  wherefore  this  woman 
should  be  shut  out  from  the  sphere  of  burnan  charities, 


HESTER    AT    HER    NEEDLE.  9 

would  creep  nigh  enougn  to  behold  her  plying  hei 
needle  at  the  cottage -window,  or  standing  in  the  door- 
iroy,  or  laboring  in  her  little  garden,  or  coming  forth 
along  the  pathway  that  led  townward ;  and,  discerning 
the  scarlet  letter  on  her  breast,  would  scamper  off  with  a 
strange,  contagious  fear. 

Lonely  as  was  Hester's  situation,  and  without  a 
friend  on  earth  who  dared  to  show  himself,  she,  how 
ever  incurred  no  risk  of  want.  She  possessed  an  art 
that  sufficed,  even  in  a  land  that  afforded  comparatively 
little  scope  for  its  exercise,  to  supply  food  for  her  thriv 
ing  infant  and  herself.  It  was  the  art  —  then,  as  now, 
almost  the  only  one  within  a  woman's  grasp  —  of 
needle-work.  She  bore  on  her  breast,  in  the  curiously 
embroidered  letter,  a  specimen  of  her  delicate  and  imag 
inative  skill,  of  which  the  dames  of  a  court  might  gladly 
have  availed  themselves,  to  add  the  richer  and  more 
spiritual  adornment  of  human  ingenuity  to  their  fabrics 
of  silk  and  gold.  Here,  indeed,  in  the  sable  simplicity 
that  generally  characterized  the  Puritanic  modes  of  dress, 
there  might  be  an  infrequent  call  for  the  finer  produc 
tions  of  her  handiwork.  Yet  the  taste  of  the  age,  de 
manding  whatever  was  elaborate  in  compositions  of  this 
kind,  did  not  fail  to  extend  its  influence  over  our  stern 
progenitors,  who  had  cast  behind  them  so  many  fashions 
which  it  might  seem  harder  to  dispense  with.  Public 
ceremonies,  such  as  ordinations,  the  installation  of 
magistrates,  and  all  that  could  give  majesty  to  the  forms 
in  which  a  new  government  manifested  itself  to  the 
people,  were,  as  a  matter  of  policy,  marked  by  a  stately 
and  well-conducted  ceremonial,  and  a  sombre,  but  yet 
a  studied  magnificence.  Deep  ruffs,  painfully  wrought 


94  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

« 

bands,  and  gorgeously  embroidered  gloves,  were  all 
deemed  necessary  to  the  official  state  of  men  assuming 
the  reins  of  power ;  and  were  readily  allowed  to  indi 
viduals  dignified  by  rank  or  wealth,  even  while  sump 
tuary  laws  forbade  these  and  similar  extravagances  to 
the  plebeian  order.  In  the  array  of  funerals,  too, — 
whether  for  the  apparel  of  the  dead  body,  or  to  typify, 
by  manifold  emblematic  devices  of  sable  cloth  and  snowy 
lawn,  the  sorrow  of  the  survivors,  —  there  was  a  fre 
quent  and  characteristic  demand  for  such  labor  as  Hes 
ter  Prynne  could  supply.  Baby-linen  —  for  babies  theh 
wore  robes  of  state  —  afforded  still  another  possibility 
of  toil  and  emolument. 

By  degrees,  nor  very  slowly,  her  handiwork  became 
what  would  now  be  termed  the  fashion.  Whether  from 
commiseration  for  a  woman  of  so  miserable  a  destiny; 
or  from  the  morbid  curiosity  that  gives  a  fictitious  value 
even  to  common  or  worthless  things;  or  by  whatever 
other  intangible  circumstance  was  then,  as  now,  sufficient 
to  bestow,  on  some  persons,  what  others  might  seek  in 
vain ;  or  because  Hester  really  filled  a  gap  which  must 
otherwise  have  remained  vacant;  it  is  certain  that  shp 
had  ready  and  fairly  requited  employment  for  as  many 
hours  as  she  saw  fit  to  occupy  with  her  needle.  Vanity, 
it  may  be,  chose  to  mortify  itself,  by  putting  on,  for 
ceremonials  of  pomp  and  state,  the  garments  that  had 
been  wrought  by  her  sinful  hands.  Her  needle-work 
was  seen  on  the  ruff  of  the  Governor ;  military  men 
wore  it  on  their  scarfs,  and  the  minister  on  his  band ;  it 
decked  the  baby's  little  cap ;  it  was  shut  up,  to  be  mil 
dewed  nnd  moulder  away,  in  the  coffins  of  the  dead. 
But  it  i  not  recorded  that,  in  a  single  instance,  hr r  skill 


HESTEK.    AT    HEP.    NEEDLE.  % 

ivas  ctuled  in  aid  to  embroider  the  white  veil  which  was 
to  cover  the  pure  blushes  of  a  bride.  The  exception 
indicated  the  ever  relentless  vigor  with  which  society 
frowned  upon  her  sin. 

Hester  sought  not  to  acquire  anything  beyond  a  sub 
sistence,  of  the  plainest  and  most  ascetic  description,  for 
herself,  and  a  simple  abundance  for  her  child.  Her  own 
dress  was  of  the  coarsest  materials  and  the  most  sombre 
hue ;  with  only  that  one  ornament,  —  the  scarlet  letter, 
—  which  it  was  her  doom  to  wear.  The  child's  attire, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  distinguished  by  a  fanciful,  or,  we 
might  rather  say,  a  fantastic  ingenuity,  which  served, 
indeed,  to  heighten  the  airy  charm  that  early  began  to 
develop  itself  in  the  little  girl,  but  which  appeared  to 
have  also  a  deeper  meaning.  We  may  speak  further 
of  it  hereafter.  Except  for  that  small  expenditure  in 
the  decoration  of  her  infant,  Hester  bestowed  all  her 
superfluous  means  in  chanty,  on  wretches  less  misera 
ble  than  herself,  and  who  not  unfrequently  insulted  the 
hand  that  fed  them.  Much  of  the  time,  which  she 
might  readily  have  applied  to  the  better  efforts  of  hei 
art,  she  employed  in  making  coarse  garments  for  the 
poor.  It  is  probable  that  there  was  an  idea  of  penance 
in  this  mode  of  occupation,  and  that  she  offered  up  a  real 
sacrifice  of  enjoyment,  in  devoting  so  many  hours  to 
such  rude  handiwork.  She  had  in  her  nature  a  rich, 
voluptuous,  Oriental  characteristic,  —  a  taste  for  the 
gorgeously  beautiful,  which,  save  in  the  exquisite  pro 
ductions  of  her  needle,  found  nothing  else,  in  all  the 
possibilities  of  her  life,  to  exercise  itself  upon.  Women 
derive  a  plearure,  incomprehensible  to  the  oiner  sex, 
from  tli?  delicate  toil  of  the  needle.  To  Hester  Piynn* 


96  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

it  might  have  been  a  mode  of  expressing,  and  there 
fore  soothing,  the  passion  of  her  life.  Like  all  othei 
joys,  she  rejected  it  as  sin.  This  morbid  meddling  of 
conscience  with  an  immaterial  matter  betokened,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  no  genuine  and  steadfast  penitence,  but  some 
thing  doubtful,  something  that  might  be  deeply  wrong, 
beneath. 

In  this  manner,  Hester  Prynne  came  to  have  a  pait 
to  perform  in  the  world.  With  her  native  energy  of 
character,  and  rare  capacity,  it  could  not  entirely  cast 
her  off,  although  it  had  set  a  mark  upon  her,  more  in 
tolerable  to  a  woman's  heart  than  that  which  branded 
the  brow  of  Cain.  In  all  her  intercourse  with  society, 
however,  there  was  nothing  that  made  her  feel  as  if  she 
belonged  to  it.  Every  gesture,  every  word,  and  even 
the  silence  of  those  with  whom  she  came  in  contact, 
implied,  and  often  expressed,  that  she  was  banished, 
and  as  much  alone  as  if  she  inhabited  another  sphere, 
or  communicated  with  the  common  nature  by  other 
organs  and  senses  than  the  rest  of  human  kind.  She 
stood  apart  from  moral  interests,  yet  close  beside  them, 
like  a  ghost  that  revisits  the  familiar  fireside,  and  can 
no  longer  make  itself  seen  or  felt ;  no  more  smile  with 
he  household  joy,  nor  mourn  with  the  kindred  sorrow  ; 
or,  should  it  succeed  in  manifesting  its  forbidden  sympa 
thy,  awakening  only  terror  and  horrible  repugnance. 
These  emotions,  in  fact,  and  its  bitterest  scorn  besides, 
seemed  to  be  the  sole  portion  that  she  retained  in  the 
universal  heart.  It  was  not  an  age  of  delicacy ;  and 
her  position,  although  she  understood  it  well,  and  was 
in  little  danger  of  forgetting  it,  was  often  brought  be 
fore  her  vivid  self-perception,  like  a  new  anguish,  by 


HESTER    AT    HER    NEEDLE.  97 

&e  rudest  touch  upon  the  tende~«st  spot.  The  poor,  aa 
we  hive  already  said,  whom  sVi?  sought  out  to  be  the 
i/bjects  of  her  bounty,  often  reviled  the  hand  that  was 
stretched  forth  to  succor  them.  Dames  of  elevated 
rank,  likewise,  whose  doors  she  entered  in  the  way  of 
her  occupation,  were  accustomed  to  distil  drops  of  bit 
terness  into  her  heart ;  sometimes  through  that  alchemy 
of  quiet  malice,  by  which  women  can  concoct  a  subtile 
poison  from  ordinary  trifles ;  and  sometimes,  also,  by  8 
coarser  expression,  that  fell  upon  the  sufferer's  defence 
less  breast  like  a  rough  blow  upon  an  ulcerated  wound. 
Hester  had  schooled  herself,  long  and  well ;  she  never 
responded  to  these  attacks,  save  by  a  flush  of  crimson 
that  rose  irrepressibly  over  her  pale  cheek,  and  again 
subsided  into  the  depths  of  her  bosom.  She  was  patient, 
—  a  martyr,  indeed,  —  but  she  forebore  to  pray  for  her 
enemies  ;  lest,  in  spite  of  her  forgiving  aspirations,  the 
words  of  the  blessing  should  stubbornly  twist  themselves 
into  a  curse. 

Continually,  and  in  a  thousand  other  ways,  did  she 
feel  the  innumerable  throbs  of  anguish  that  had  been 
so  cunningly  contrived  for  her  by  the  undying,  the 
ever-active  sentence  of  the  Puritan  tribunal.  Clergy- 
men  paused  in  the  street  to  address  words  of  exhorta 
tion,  that  brought  a  crowd,  with  its  mingled  grin  and 
frown,  around  the  poor,  sinful  woman.  If  she  entered 
a  church,  trusting  to  share  the  Sabbath  smile  of  the 
Universal  Father,  it  was  often  her  mishap  to  find  her 
self  the  text  of  the  discourse.  She  grew  to  have  a 
dread  of  children;  for  they  had  imbibed  from  their 
parents  a  vague  idea  of  something  horrible  in  this  dreary 
woman,  gliding  silently  through  the  town,  with  neve/ 
7  . 


98  T11E    SCARLET    LETTEn- 

any  compinion  but  one  only  child.  Therefore,  h»t 
allowing  her  to  pass,  they  pursued  her  at  a  distance  with 
shrill  cries,  and  the  utterance  of  a  word  that  had  no  dis« 
tinct  purport  to  their  own  minds,  but  was  none  the  less 
terrible  to  her,  as  proceeding  from  lips  that  gabbled  h 
•mconsciously.  J.t.&eenied-tQ-aigue  so  wide  a  d illusion 
*f  j^rj^jp'v*!"**  nlJ  ""*"">  kofw  pf  **•}  it  could  have 
caused  her  no  deeper  pang,  had  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
whispered  the  dark  story  among  themselves,  —  had 
the  summer  breeze  murmured  about  it  —  had  the  wintry 
blast  shrieked  it  aloud  !  Another  peculiar  torture  was 
felt  in  the  gaze  of  a  new  eye.  When  strangers  looked 
curiously  at  the  scarlet  letter,  —  and  none  ever  failed  to 
do  so,  —  they  branded  it  afresh  into  Hester's  soul ;  so 
that,  oftentimes,  she  could  scarcely  refrain,  yet  always 
4id  refrain,  from  covering  the  symbol  with  her  hand. 
But  then,  again,  an  accustomed  eye  had  likewise  its  own 
inguish  to  inflict.  Its  cool  stare  of  familiarity  was  in 
tolerable.  From  first  to  last,  in  short,  Hester  Prynne 
had  always  this  dreadful  agony  in  feeling  a  human  eye 
upon,  the  token  ;  the  spot  never  grew  callous  ;  it  seemed, 
nn  the  contrary,  to  grow  more  sensitive  with  daily  tor- 
tore. 

But  sometimes,  once  in  many  days,  or  perchance  in 
many  months,  she  felt  an  eye  —  a  human  eye  —  upon 
the  ignominious  brand,  that  seemed  to  give  a  momenta ry 
relief,  as  if  half  of  her  agony  were  shared.  The  next 
instant,  back  it  all  rushed  again,  with  still  a  deeper  throl 
of  pain  ;  for,  in  that  brief  interval,  she  had  sinned  anew 
Had  Hester  sinned  alone  ? 

H-r  imagination  was  somewhat  affected,  and,  had  she 
been  if  a  softer  moral  and  intellectual  fibre,  would  have 


HESTEJ",    AT   HER    NEEDLE.  99 

peon  jtill  more  so,  by  the  strange  and  solitaiy  ai.guish 
of  h(3r  life.  Walking  to  and  fro,  with  those  lonely  foot- 
steps,  in  the  little  world  with  which  she  was  outwardly 
connected,  it  now  and  then  appeared  to  Hester,  —  if 
altogether  fancy,  it  was  nevertheless  too  potent  to  be  re 
sisted,  —  she  felt  or  fancied,  then,  that  .the  scarlet  letter 
had  endowed  her  with  a  new  sense.  She  shuddered  to 


believe,  yet  could  not  help  believing,jhat  ij^gaye  _her  a 
sympathetic  knowledge'bf  the,  hidden  sin,  in,  other-hearts. 
She  was  terror-stricken  by  the  revelations  that  were  thus 
made.  What  were  they  ?  Could  they  be  other  than 
the  insidious  wlrspers  of  the  bad  angel,  who  would  fain 
have  persuaded  the  struggling  woman,  as  yet  only  half 
his  victim,  that  the  outward  guise  of  purity  was  but  a 
lie,  and  that,  if  truth  were  everywhere  to  be  shown,  a 
scarlet  letter  would  blaze  forth  on  many  a  bosom  besides 
Hester  Prynne's  ?  Or,  must  she  receive  those  intima 
tions  —  so  obscure,  yet  so  distinct  —  as  truth?  In  all 
her  miserable  experience,  there  was  nothing  else  so  awful 
and  so  loathsome  as  this  sense.  It  perplexed,  as  well  as 
shocked  her,  by  the  irreverent  inopportuneness  of  the  oc 
casions  that  brought  it  into  vivid  action.  Sometimes  the 
red  infamy  upon  her  breast  would  give  a  sympathetic 
throb,  as  she  passed  near  a  venerable  minister  or  magis 
trate,  the  model  of  piety  and  justice,  to  whom  that  age 
of  antique  reverence  looked  up,  as  to  a  mortal  man  in 
fellowship  with  angels.  "  What  evil  thing  is  at  hand  ?  " 
would  Hester  say  to  herself.  Lifting  her  reluctant  eyes, 
tnere  would  be  nothing  human  within  the  scope  of  view. 
save  the  form  of  this  earthly  saint  !  Again,  a  mystic 
sisterhood  would  contumaciously  assert  itself,  asshemel 
the  sanctified  frown  of  some  matron,  who,  according  it 


100  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

the  rumor  of  all  tonguos,  had  kept  cold  snow  within  hei 
bosom  throughout  life.  That  unsunned  snow  in  the 
matron's  bosom,  and  the  burning  shame  on  Hestei 
Prynne's,  —  what  nad  the  two  in  common?  Or,  once 
more,  the  electric  thrill  would  give  her  warning, — 
"  Behold,  Hester,  here  is  a  companion ! "  —  and,  looking 
up,  she  would  detect  the  eyes  of  a  young  maiden  glancing 
at  the  scarlet  letter,  shyly  and  aside,  and  quickly  averted 
with  a  faint,  chill  crimson  in  her  cheeks ;  as  if  her  pu 
rity  were  somewhat  sullied  by  that  momentary  glance 
0  Fiend,  whose  talisman  was  that  fatal  symbol,  woulds,* 
thou  leave  nothing,  whether  in  youth  or  age,  for  thi? 
poor  sinner  to  revere  ?  —  such  loss  of  faith  is  ever  one 
of  the  saddest  results  of  sin.  Be  it  accepted  as  a  proof 
that  all  was  not  c^mipt  in  this  poor  victim  of  her  owi 
frailty,  and  man'?  hard  law,  that  Hester  Prynne  ve» 
struggled  to  believe  that  no  fellow-mortal  was  guiltv 
like  herself. 

T4ia.vulgaj^-ayrirj7^  oldJirngsywere  alwav« 

!ontribirting-s.^grotesqne  horror  to  what  intejested  then 

ut  the  scarlet  letter  whien 
worr~up  into  alerrificlegend.  They 
averred,  that  the  symbol  was  not  mere  scarlet  cloth, 
tinged  in  an  earthly  dye-pot,  but  was  red-hot  with  infer 
nal  fire,  and  could  be  seen  glowing  all  alight,  whenever 
Hester  Prynne  walked  abroad  in  the  night-time.  And 
we  must  needs  say,  it  seared  Hester's  bosom  so  deeply 
that  perhaps  there  v/as  more  truth  in  the  rumor  thUnmu 
mo  lern  incredulity  inay  be  inclined  to  admit 


PEARL.  101 


VI. 

PEARL. 

WE  have  as  yet  hardly  spoken,  of  the  infant;  tha/ 
little  creature,  whose  innocent  life  had  sprung,  by  th« 
inscrutable  decree  of  Providence,  a  lovely  and  immor 
tal  flower,  out  of  the  rank  luxuriance  of  a  guilty  pas 
sion.  How  strange  it  seem  3d  to  the  sad  woman,  as  she 
watched  the  growth,  and  the  beauty  that  became  every 
day  more  brilliant,  and  the  intelligence  that  threw  its 
quivering  sunshine  over  the  tiny  features  of  this  child ! 
Her  Pearl !  —  For  so  had  Hester  called  her ;  not  as  a 
name  expressive  of  her  aspect,  which  had  nothing  of  the 
calm,  white,  unimpassioned  lustre  that  would  be  indi 
cated  by  the  comparison.  But  she  named  the  infant 
"  Pearl,"  as  being  of  great  price,  —  purchased  with  all 
she  had,  —  her  mother'^  nnly  trpT^mrJ^  How  strange^ 
indeed  !  Man  had  marked  this  woman's  sin  by  a  scarlgl. 
letter,  which  had  such  potent  and  disastrous  efficacy  that 
no  human  sympathy  could  reach  her,  save  it  were_sjnful 
like  herself^  God,  as  a  direct  consequence  of  the^sin 
which  man  thus  punished,  had  given  her  a  lovely  child, 
whose  place  was  on  that  same  dishonored"  Tbosom,  to  con 
nect  her  parent  forever  with  the  race  and  descent  of  mor 
tals,  and  to  be  finally  a  blessed  soul  in  heaven !  Yel 
ihese  thoughts  affected  Hester  Prynne  less  with  hope 
tho.n  apprehension.  She  knew  that  her  deed  had  been 
evil ;  she  could  have  no  faith,  therefore,  that  its  result 
d  bo  good.  Day  after  day,  she  looked  fearfully  into 


102 


THE    SCAKLET    LETTER. 


the  child's  expanding  nature  ever  dreading  to  detect 
"ome  dark  and  wild  peculiarity,  that  should  correspond 
with  the  guiltiness  to  which  she  owed  her  being. 

Certainly,  there  was  no  physical  defect.  By  its  per 
feet  shape,  its  vig->r,  and  its  natural  dexterity  in  the  use 
of  all  ;ts  untried  limbs,  the  infant  was  worthy  to  have 
been  brought  forth  in  Eden  ;  worthy  to  have  been  left 
'here,  to  oe  the  plaything  of  the  angels,  after  the  world'a 
first  parents  were  driven  out.  The  child  had  a  native 
grace  which  does  not  invariably  coexist  with  faultless 
oeauty ;  its  attire,  however  simple,  always  impressed  the 
beholder  as  if  it  were  the  very  garb  that  precisely  became 
it  best.  But  little  Pearl  was  not  clad  in  rustic  weeds. 
Her  mother,  with  a  morbid  purpose  that  may  be  better 
understood  hereafter,  had  bought  the  richest  tissues  that 
could  be  procured,  and  allowed  her  imaginative  faculty 
its  full  play  in  the  arrangement  and  decoration  of  the 
dresses  which  the  child  wore,  before  the  public  eye.  So 
magnificent  was  the  small  figure,  when  thus  arrayed, 
and  such  was  the  splendor  of  Pearl's  own  proper  beauty, 
shining  through  the  gorgeous  robes  which  might  have 
extinguished  a  paler  loveliness,  that  there  was  an  abso 
lute  circle  of  radiance  around  her,  on  the  darksome  cot 
tage  floor.  And  yet  a  russet  gown,  torn  and  soiled  with 
the  child's  rude  play,  made  a  picture  of  her  just  aa  per- 
Oct.  Pearl's  aspect  was  imbued  with  a  spell  of  infinite 
v:\riety;  in  this  one  child  there  were  many  children, 
comprehending  the  full  scope  between  the  w.ld-flowe1 
prettiness  of  a  peasant-baby,  and  the  pomp,  in  little,  o* 
an  infant  princess.  Throughout  all,  however,  there  was 
a  trait  of  passion,  a  certain  depth  of  hue,  which  she 
never  lost  •  and  if,  in  any  of  her  changes,  she  had  grown 


103 


fainter  01  paler,  she  would  have  ceasod  to  be  herself  — 
it  would  have  been  no  longer  Pearl  ! 

This  outward  mutability  indicated,  and  did  not  more 
than  uiirly  express,  the  various  properties  of  her  inner 
life.  Her  nature  appeared  to  possess  depth,  too,  as  well 
as  variety  ;  but  —  or  else  Hester's  fears  deceived  her  — 
it  lacked  reference  and  adaptation  to  the  world  into 
.vhich  she  was  born.  The  child  could  not  be  made 
amenable  to  rules.  In  giving  her  existence,  a^greaJL!aw 
nad  been  broken  ;  and  the  result  was  a  being  whose  ele 
ments  were  perhaps  beautiful  and  brilliant,  but  all  in 
disorder;  or  with  an  order  peculiar  to  themselves,  amidst 
•vhich  the  point  of  variety  and  arrangement  was  difficult 
3r  impossible  to  be  discovered.  Hester  could  only  ac- 
:ount  for  the  child's  character  —  and  even  then  most 
vaguely  and  imperfectly  —  by  recalling  what  she  herself 
aad  been,  during  that  momentous  period  while  Pearl  was 
imbibing  her  soul  from  the  spiritual  world,  and  her  bodily 
frame  from  its  material  of  earth.  The  mother's  impas 
sioned  state  had  been  the  medium  through  which  were 
transmitted  to  the  unborn  infant  the  rays  of  its  moral 
life  ;  and,  however  white  and  clear  originally,  they  had 
taken  the  deep  stains  of  crimson  and  gold,  the  fiery 
lustre,  th  3  black  shadow,  and  the  untempered  light,  of 
the  intervening  substance.  Above  all,  the  warfare  of 
Ulster's  spirit,  at  that  epoch,  was  perpetuated  in  Pearl. 
She  could  recognize  her  wild,  desperate,  defiant  mood, 
the  flightiness  of  her  temper,  and  even  some  of  the  very 
cloud-shapes  of  gloom  and  despondency  that  had  brocded 
in  her  heart.  They  were  now  illuminated  by  the  morn 
ing  radiance  of  a  young  child's  disposition,  but  Inter  in 


104  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

the  day  of  earthly  existence,  might  be  prolific  of  th« 
Btorm  and  whirlwind. 

The  discipline  of  the  family,  in  those  days,  was  of  * 
tar  more  rigid  kind  than  now.  The  frown,  the  harsh 
rebuke,  the  frequent  application  of  the  rod,  enjoined  by 
Scriptural  authority,  were  used,  not  merely  in  the  way 
of  punishment  for  actual  offences,  but  as  a  wholesome 
regimen  for  the  growth  and  promotion  of  all  childish 
virtues.  Hester  Prynne,  nevertheless,  the  lonely  mothei 
of  this  one  child,  ran  little  risk  of  erring  on  the  side  of 
undue  severity.  Mindful,  however,  of  her  own  errors 
and  misfortunes,  she  early  sought  to  impose  a  tender, 
but  strict  control  over  the  infant  immortality  that  was 
committed  to  her  charge.  But  the  task  was  beyond  her 
skill.  After  testing  both  smiles  and  frowns,  and  proving 
that  neither  mode  of  treatment  possessed  any  calculable 
influence,  Hester  was  ultimately  compelled  to  stand 
aside,  and  permit  the  child  to  be  swayed  by  her  own 
impulses.  Physical  compulsion  or  restraint  was  effect 
ual,  of  course,  while  it  lasted.  As  to  any  other  kind  of 
discipline,  whether  addressed  to  her  mind  or  heart,  little 
Pearl  might  or  might  not  be  within  its  reach,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  caprice  that  ruled  the  moment.  Her 
mother,  while  Pearl  was  yet  an  infant,  grew  acquainted 
with  a  certain  peculiar  look,  that  warned  her  when  it 
would  be  labor  thrown  away  to  insist,  persuade,  or  plead. 
It  was  a  look  so  intelligent,  yet  inexplicable,  so  perverse, 
sometimes  so  malicious,  but  generally  accompanied  by  a 
wild  flow  of  spirits,  that  Hester  could  not  help  question 
ing,  at  such  moments,  whether  Pearl  was  a  "mman  child. 
She  seemed  rather  an  airy  sprite,  which,  after  playing 
its  fantastic  sports  for  a  little  while  upon  the  cottage 


PEARL.  105 

floor,  would  flit  away  with  a  mocking  smile.  Whenever 
that  look  appeared  in  her  wild,  bright,  deeply  black  eyes 
it  invested  her  with  a  strange  remoteness  and  intangi 
bility  ;  it  was  as  if  she  were  hovering  in  the  air  and 
i  aight  vanish,  like  a  glimmering  light,  that  comes  we 
know  not  whence,  and  goes  we  know  not  whither.  Be 
holding  it,  Hester  was  constrained  to  rush  towards  the 
child,  —  to  pursue  the  little  elf  in  the  flight  which  she 
invariably  began,  —  to  snatch  her  to  her  bosom,  with  a 
close  pressure  and  earnest  kisses,  —  not  so  much  from 
overflowing  love,  as  tp_  assure 


t  utferi-dglusige.     But  Pearl's 


laugh,  when  she  was  caught,  though  full  of  merriment 
and  music,  made  her  mother  more  doubtful  than  before. 

Heart-smitten  at  this  bewildering  and  baffling  spell, 
that  so  often  came  between  herself  and  her  sole  treasure, 
whom  she  had  bought  so  dear,  and  who  was  all  her 
world,  Hester  sometimes  burst  into  passionate  tears. 
Then,  perhaps,  —  for  there  was  no  foreseeing  how  it 
might  affect  her,  —  Pearl  would  frown,  and  clench  her 
little  fist,  and  harden  her  small  features  into  a  stern,  un- 
sympathizing  look  of  discontent.  Not  seldom,  she  would 
laugh  anew,  and  louder  than  before,  like  a  thing  incapa 
ble  and  unintelligent  of  human  sorrow.  Or  —  but  this 
more  rarely  happened  —  she  would  be  convulsed  with  a 
rage  of  grief,  and  sob  out  her  love  for  her  mother,  in 
broken  words,  and  seem  intent  on  proving  that  she  had 

heart,  by  breaking  it.  Yet  Hester  was  hardly  safe  in 
confiding  herself  to  that  gusty  tenderness  ;  it  passed,  as 
suddenly  as  it  came.  Brooding  over  all  these  matters, 
the  mother  felt  like  one  who  has  evoked  a  spirit,  but,  by 
irregularity  tn  the  process  of  conjuration^  has  failed 


106  THE    SCAB LET    LETTER. 

^jgdujhejriaster-word  that  should_control 
4ncpmpreh^sible_im^ingienc^  Heronty"'real  comfort 
was  when  the  child  lay  in  the  placidity  of  sleep.  Then 
she  was  sure  of  her,  and  tasted  hours  of  quiet,  sad,  deli 
cious  happiness;  until  —  perhaps  with  that  perverse  ex 
pression  glimmering  from  beneath  her  opening  lids  — 
little  Pearl  awoke  ! 

How  soon  —  with  what  strange  rapidity,  indeed !  — 
did  Pearl  arrive  at  an  age  that  was  capable  of  social 
intercourse,  beyond  the  mother's  ever-ready  smile  and 
nonsense-words  !  And  then  what  a  happiness  would  it 
have  been,  could  Hester  Prynne  have  heard  her  clear, 
bird -like  voice  mingling  with  the  uproar  of  other  childish 
voices,  and  have  distinguished  and  unravelled  her  own 
darling's  tones,  amid  all  the  entangled  outcry  of  a  group 
of  sportive  children  !  But  this  could  never  be.  Pearl 
was  a  born  outcast  of  the  infantile  world.  An  imp  of 
evil,  emblem  and  product  of  sin,  she  had  no  right  among 
cnristened  infants.  Nothing  was  more  remarkable  than 
the  instinct,  as  it  seemed,  with  which  the  child  compre 
hended  her  loneliness ;  the  destiny  that  had  drawn  an 
'nviolable  circle  round  about  her;  the  whole  peculiarity, 
in  short,  of  her  position  in  respect  to  other  children, 
Never,  since  her  release  from  prison,  had  Hester  met  the 
public  gaze  without  her.  In  all  her  walks  about  the 
town,  Pearl,  too,  was  there ;  first  a?  the  babe  in  arms, 
and  afterwards  as  the  little  girl,  small  crmpanion  of  her 
mother,  holding  a  forefinger  with  her  whole  grasp,  and 
tripping  along  at  the  rate  of  three  or  four  footsteps  to  one 
of,  Hester's.  She  saw  the  children  of  the  settlement,  on 
the  grassy  margin  of  the  street,  or  at  the  domestic  thresh 
olds,  dispoiting  themselves  in  such  grim  fashion  as  the 


PEARfc.  107 

Paritanic  nuitu^e  would  permit;  playing  at  going  to 
:hur:h,  perchance;  or  at  scourging  Quakers;  or  taking 
scalps  in  a  sham-fight  with  the  Indians ;  or  scaring  one 
another  with  freaks  of  imitative  witchcraft.  Pearl  saw,  and 
gazed  intently,  but  never  sought  to  make  acquaintance. 
'd  spoken  to,  she  would  not  speak  again.  If  the  children 
gathered  about  her,  as  they  sometimes  did,  Pearl  would 
grow  positively  terrible  in  her  puny  wrath,  snatching  up 
stones  to  fling  at  them,  with  shrill,  incoherent  exclama 
tions,  that  made  her  mother  tremble,  because  they  had  so 
much  the  sound  of  a  witch's  anathemas  in  so**ie  unknown 
tongue. 

The  truth  was,  that  the  little  Puritans,  being  of  the 
most  intolerant  brood  that  ever  lived,  had  got  a  vague 
<dea  of  something  outlandish,  unearthly,  or  at  variance 
arith  ordinary  fashions,  in  the  mother  and  child ;  and 
therefore  scorned  them  in  their  hearts,  and  not  unfre- 
^uently  reviled  them  with  their  tongues.  Pearl  felt  the 
sentiment,  and  requited  it  with  the  bitterest  hatred  that 
can  be  supposed  to  rankle  in  a  childish  bosom.  These 
outbreaks  of  a  fierce  temper  had  a  kind  of  value,  and 
even  comfort,  for  her  mother ;  because  there  was  at  least 
in  intelligible  earnestness  in  the  mood,  instead  of  the 
atful  caprice  that  so  often  thwarted  her  in  the  child's 
jianifestations.  It  appalled  her,  nevertheless  to  discern 
nere,  again,  a  shadowy  reflection  of  the  evil  that  had 
existed  in  herself.  All  this  enmity  and  passion  had 
Pearl  inherited,  by  inalienable  right,  out  of  Hester's 
heart.  Mother  and  daughter  stood  together  in  the  saint 
Circle  of  seclusion  from  human  society ;  and  in  :Le  nature 
of  toe  child  seemed  to  be  perpetuated  those  unquiet  ele 
ments  thax  haJ  distracted  Hester  Pry  imp  before  Pearl's 


108  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

birth,  but  had  since  begun  to  be  soothed  away  by  th% 
Foftening  influences  of  maternity. 

At  home,  within  and  around  her  mother's  cottage, 
Pearl  wanted  not  a  wide  and  various  circle  of  acquaint 
ance.  The  spell  of  life  went  forth  from  her  ever  creative 
spirit,  and  communicated  itself  to  a  thousand  objects,  as 
a  torch  kindles  a  flame  wherever  it  may  be  applied.  The 
unlikeliest  materials,  —  a  stick,  a  bunch  of  rags,  a  flower, 
/ — were  the  puppets  of  Pearl's  witchcraft,  and,  without 
j undergoing  any  outward  change,  became  spiritually 
(adapted  to  whatever  drama  occupied  the  stage  of  her 
(Dinner  world.  Her  one  baby-voice  served  a  multitude  of 
imaginary  personages,  old  and  young,  to  talk  withal. 
The  pine-trees,  aged,  black,  and  solemn,  and  flinging 
groans  and  other  melancholy  utterances  on  the  breeze, 
needed  little  transformation  to  figure  as  Puritan  elders ; 
the  ugliest  weeds  of  the  garden  were  their  children, 
whom  Pearl  smote  down  and  uprooted,  most  unmerci 
fully.  It  was  wonderful,  the  vast  variety  of  forms  into 
which  she  threw  her  intellect,  with  no  continuity,  indeed, 
but  darting  up  and  dancing,  always  in  a  state  of  preter 
natural  activity,  —  soon  sinking  down,  as  if  exhausted 
by  so  rapid  and  feverish  a  tide  of  life,  —  and  succeeded 
by  other  shapes  of  a  similar  wild  energy.  It  was  like 
nothing  so  much  as  the  phantasmagoric  play  of  the 
northern  lights.  In  the  mere  exercise  of  the  fancy,  how 
ever,  and  the  sportiveness  of  a  growing  mind,  there  might 
be  ittle  more  than  was  observable  in  other  children  of 
bright  faculties  ;  except  as  Pearl,  in  the  dearth  of  human 
playmates,  was  thrown  more  upon  the  visionary  throng 
which  she  created.  The  singularity  lay  in  the  hostile 
feelings  with  which  the  child  regarded  all  these  offspring 


PEARL.  10S 

cf  her  own  heart  and  mind.  She  never  created  a  friend 
but  seemed  always  to  be  sowing  broadcast  the  dragon's 
teeth,  whence  sprung  a  harvest  of  armed  enemies,  against 
whom  she  rushed  to  battle.  It  was  inexpressibly  sad  - 
then  what  depth  of  sorrow  to  a  mother,  who  felt  in  hf  r 
own  heart  the  cause  !  —  to  observe,  in  one  so  young,  this 
constant  recognition  of  an  adverse  world,  arid  so  fierce  a 
training  of  the  energies  that  were  to  make  good  her  cause, 
in  the  contest  that  must  ensue. 

Gazing  at  Pearl,  Hester  Prynne  often  dropped  her 
work  upon  her  knees,  and  cried  out  with  an  agony  which 
she  would  fain  have  hidden,  but  which  made  utterance 
for  itself,  betwixt  speech  and  a  groan,  —  "0  Father  in 
Heaven,  —  if  Thou  art  still  my  Father,  —  what  is  this 
being  which  I  have  brought  into  the  world !  "  And 
Pearl,  overhearing  the  «jaculation,  or  aware,  through 
some  more  subtile  channel,  of  those  throbs  of  anguish, 
would  turn  her  vivid  and  beautiful  little  face  upon  her 
mother,  smile  with  sprite-like  intelligence,  and  resume 
her  play. 

One  peculiarity  of  the  child's  deportment  remains  yet 
to  be  told.  The  very  first  thing  which  she  had  noticed, 
in  her  life,  was  —  what  ?  —  not  the  mother's  smile,  re 
sponding  to  it,  as  other  babies  do,  by  that  faint,  embryo 
smile  of  the  little  mouth,  remembered  so  doubtfully  after 
wards,  and  with  such  fond  discussion  whether  it  were 
indeed  a  smile.  By  no  means  !  But  that  first  object  of 
which  Pearl  seemed  to  become  aware  was  —  shall  we  say 
'$  ?  —  the  scarlet  letter  on  Hester's  bosom !  One  day,  as 
her  mother  stooped  over  the  cradle,  the  infant's  eyes  had 
been  c-aught  by  the  glimmering  of  the  gold  embroidery 
about  the  letter;  and,  putting  up  her  little  hand,  sL* 


110  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

grasped  at  it,  smiling,  not  doubtfully,  but  with  a  decided 
gleam,  that  gave  her  face  the  look  of  a  much  older  child. 
Then,  gasping  for  breath,  did  Hester  Prynne  clutch  the 
fatal  token,  instinctively  endeavoring  to  tear  it  away ;  so 
infinite  was  the  torture  inflicted  by  the  intelligent  touch 
of  Pearl's  baby-hand.  Again,  as  if  her  mother's  ago 
nized  gesture  were  meant  only  to  make  sport  for  her,  did 
little  Pearl  look  into  her  eyes,  and  smile  !  From  that 
epoch,  except  when  the  child  was  asleep,  Hester  had 
never  felt  a  moment's  safety;  not  a  moment's  calm  enjoy 
ment  of  her.  Weeks,  it  is  true,  would  sometimes  elapse, 
during  which  Pearl's  gaze  might  never  once  be  fixed 
upon  the  scarlet  letter ;  but  then,  again,  it  would  come 
at  unawares,  like  the  stroke-  of  sudden  death,  and 
always  with  that  peculiar  srnile,  and  odd  expression  o; 
the  eyes. 

Once,  this  freakish,  elvish  cast  came  into  the  child's 
eyes,  while  Hester  was  looking  at  her  own  image  in  them, 
as  mothers  are  fond  of  doing;  and,  suddenly,  —  for  wo 
men  in  solitude,  and  with  troubled  hearts,  are  pestered 
with  unaccountable  delusions,  —  she  fancied  that  she  be 
held,  not  her  own  miniature  portrait,  but  another  face,  in 
the  small  black  mirror  of  Pearl's  eye.  It  was  a  face,  fiend- 
like,  full  of  smiling  malice,  yet  bearing  the  semblance  of 
features  that  she  had  known  full  well,  though  seldom 
with  a  smile,  and  never  with  malice  in  them.  It  was  as 
if  an  evil  spirit  possessed  the  child,  and  had  just  then 
peeped  forth  in  mockery.  Many  a  time  afterwards  had 
Hester  been  tortured,  though  less  vividly,  by  the  same 
illusion. 

In  the  afternoon  of  a  certain,  summer's  day,  after  ?ear) 
grew  big  enough  to  run  about,  she  amused  herself  witb 


PEARL.  Ill 

gathering  handfuls  of  wild-flowers,  and  flinging  them,  one 
by  one,  at  h/»r  mother's  bosom ;  dancing  up  and  down, 
like  a  little  elf,  whenever  she  hit  the  scarlet  ktter.  Hes 
ter's  first  motion  had  been  to  cover  her  bosom  with  her 
clasped  hands.  But,  whether  from  pride  or  resignation, 
or  a  feeling  that  her  penance  might  best  be  wrought  out 
Oy  thh  unutterable  pain,  she  resisted  the  impulse,  and 
«at  erect,  pale  as  death,  looking  sadly  into  little  Pearl's 
«rild  eyes.  Still  came  the  battery  of  flowers,  almost  in- 
rariably  hitting  the  mark,  and  covering  the  mother's 
oreast  with  hurts  for  which  she  could  find  no  balm  in  this 
world,  nor  knew  how  to  seek  it  in  another.  At  last,  her 
shot  being  all  expended,  the  child  stood  still  and  gazed  at 
flester,  with  that  little,  laughing  image  of  a  fiend  peep 
ing  out  —  or,  whether  it  peeped  or  no,  her  mother  so 
imagined  it  —  from  the  unsearchable  abyss  of  her  black 
eyes. 

"Child,  what  art  thou  ?  "  cried  the  mother. 

"  O,  I  am  your  little  Pearl !  "  answered  the  child. 

But,  while  she  said  it,  Pearl  laughed,  and  began  to 
dance  up  and  down,  with  the  humorsome  gesticulation 
of  a  little  imp,  whose  next  freak  might  fte  to  fly  up  the 
chimney. 

"  Art  thou  my  child,  in  very  truth  ?  "  asked  Hester. 

Nor  did  she  put  the  question  altogether  idly,  but,  foi 
tts  moment,  with  a  portion  of  genuine  earnestness ;  for, 
such  was  Pearl's  wonderful  intelligence,  that  her  mothei 
half  doubted  whether  she  wore  not  acquainted  with  the 
secret  spell  of  her  existence,  and  might  not  now  reveal 
herself. 

"  Yes;  I  am  little  Pearl!  "  repeated  the  child,  contin 
tting  her  antics. 


112  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

"  Thou  art  not  my  child  !  Thou  art  no  Pearl  of  mine  J  w 
said  the  mother,  half  playfully ;  for  it  was  often  the  cas« 
that  a  sportive  impulse  came  over  her,  in  the  midst  of  her 
deepest  suffering.  "  Tell  me,  then,  what  thou  art,  and 
who  sent  thee  hither  ?  " 

"  Tell  me,  mother !  "  said  the  child,  seriously,  coming 
up  to  Hester,  and  pressing  herself  close  to  her  knees. 
"  Do  thou  tell  me  !  " 

"  Thy  Heavenly  Father  sent  thee ! "  answered  Hester 
Prynne. 

But  she  said  it  with  a  hesitation  that  did  not  escape 
the  acuteness  of  the  child.  Whether  moved  only  by  her 
ordinary  freakishness,  or  because  an  evil  spirit  prompted 
her,  she  put  up  her  small  forefinger,  and  touched  the 
scarlet  letter. 

"He  did  not  send  me!"  cried  she,  positive^.  "1 
have  no  Heavenly  Father  !  " 

"  Hush,  Pearl,  hush !  Thou  must  not  talk  so !  "  an 
swered  the  mother,  suppressing  a  groan.  "  He  sent  us 
all  into  this  world.  He  sent  even  me,  thy  mother.  Then, 
much  more,  thee !  Or,  if  not,  thou  strange  and  elfish 
child,  whence  didst  thou  come  ?  " 

"  Tell  me !  Tell  me !  "  repeated  Pearl,  no  longer 
seriously,  but  laughing,  and  capering  about  the  floor. 
"  It  is  thou  that  must  tell  me  !  " 

But  Hester  could  not  resolve  the  query,  being  herself 
in  a  dismal  labyrinth  of  doubt.  She  remembered  —  be 
twixt  a  smile  and  a  shudder  —  the  talk  of  the  neighbor- 
ing  townspeople  ;  who,  seeking  vainly  elsewhere  for  the 
child's  paternity,  and  observing  some  of  her  odd  attributes 
had  given  out  that  poor  little  Pearl  was  i  demon  ofl 
spring;  such  as,  ever  since  old  Catholic  times,  had  occa 


PEARL. 


Bionally  been  seen  on  earth,  through  the  agency  of  their 
mother's  sin,  and  to  promote  some  foul  and  wicked  pur 
pose.  Luther,  according  to  the  scandal  of  his  monkish 
enemies,  was  a  brat  of  that  hellish  breed ;  nor  was  I  earl 
•he  only  child  to  whom  this  inauspicious  origin  wv 
assigned,  among  the  New  England  Puritans. 


U4  THE   SCARIET   LETTE*. 


VII. 

THE  GOVERNOR'S  HAjLL. 

HESTER  PRYNNE  went,  one  day,  to-t^e  mansion  of 
Governor  Bellingham,  with  a  pair  of  gloves, -which  une 
had  fringed  and  embroidered  to  his  order,  and  which  were 
to  be  worn  on  some  great  occasion  of  state  ;  for,  though 
the  chances  of  a  popular  election  had  caused  this  former 
ruler  to  descend  a  step  or  two  from  the  highest  rank,  he 
still  held  an  honorable  and  influential  place  among  the 
colonial  magistracy. 

Another  and  far  more  important  reason  than  the  deliv 
ery  of  a  pair  of  embroidered  gloves  impelled  Hester,  at 
this  time,  to  seek  an  interview  with  a  personage  of  so 
much  power  and  activity  in  the  affairs  of  the  settlement. 
It  had  reached  her  ears,  that  there  was  a  design  on  the 
part  of  some  of  the  leading  inhabitants,  cherishing  the 
more  rigid  order  of  principles  in  religion  and  government, 
to  deprive  her  of  her  child.  On  the  supposition  that 
Pearl,  as  already  hinted,  was  of  demon  origin,  these  good 
people  not  unreasonably  argued  that  a  Christian  interest 
in  the  mother's  soul  required  them  to  remove  such  a 
stumbling-block  from  her  path.  If  the  child,  on  the 
other  hand,  were  really  capable  of  moral  and  religious 
growth,  and  possessed  the  elements  >f  ultimate  salvation 
then,  surely,  it  would  enjoy  all  the  fairer  prospect  of  these 
advantages,  by  being  transferred  to  wiser  and  better 
guardianship  than  Hester  Prynne's.  Among  those  who 
promoted  the  design,  Governor  Bellingham  was  said  to 


THE  GOVERNOR'S  HALL.  115 

be  one  of  the  most  busy.  It  may  appear  singular,  and 
indeed,  not  a  little  ludicrous,  that  an  affair  of  thr. 
'kind,  which,  in  later  days,  would  have  been  referred 
to  DO  higher  jurisdiction  than  that  of  the  selectmen  of 
the  town,  should  *]}.en  hnvg  bepri  n  question  pnblirly 
4iscussejcL  and  on  which  statesmen  of  eminence  took 
sides.  At  that  epoch  of  pristine  simplicity,  however, 
matters  of  even  slighter  public  interest,  and  of  far  less 
intrinsic  weight,  than  the  welfare  of  Hester  and  her 
child,  were  strangely  mixed  up  with  the  deliberations  of 
legislators  and  acts  of  state.  The  period  was  hardly, 
if  at  all,  earlier  than  that  of  our  story,  when  a  dispute 
concerning  the  right  of  property  in  a  pig,  not  only  caused 
a  fierce  and  bitter  contest  in  the  legislative  body  of  the 
colony,  but  resulted  in  an  important  modification  of  the 
framework  itself  of  the  legislature. 

Full  of  concern,  therefore,  —  but  so  conscious  of  hex 
own  right  that  it  seemed  scarcely  an  unequal  match 
between  the  public,  on  the  one  side,  and  a  lonely  woman, 
backed  by  the  sympathies  of  nature,  on  the  other, — 
Hester  Prypne  set  forth  from  her  solitary  cottage.  Lit 
tle  Pearl,  of  course,  was  her  companion.  She  was  now 
of  an  age  to  run  lightly  along  by  her  mother's  side,  and 
constantly  in  motion,  from  morn  till  sunset,  could  have 
accomplished  a  much  longer  journey  than  that  before 
her.  Often,  nevertheless,  more  from  caprice  than  neces 
sity,  she  demanded  to  be  taken  up  inarms  ;  but  was  soon 
as  imperious  to  be  set  down  again,  and  frisked  onward 
before  Hester  on  the  grassy  pathway,  with  many  a 
Harmless  trip  and  tumble.  We  have  spoken  of  Pearl'-, 
rich  and  luxuriant  beauty;  a  beauty  that  shone  with 
deep  and  vivid  tints;  a  bright  complexion,  eyes  possess 


1  16  THE    SCARLET    LETTLft.. 

iiig  intensity  both  of  depth  and  glow,  and  hair  already 
of  a  deep,  glossy  brown,  and  which,  in  after  years, 
would  be  nearly  akin  to  black.  There  was  fire  in  hei 
and  throughout  her;  she  seemed  the  unpremeditated 
offshoot  of  a  passionate  moment.  Her  mother,  in  con 
triving  the  child's  garb,  had  allowed  the  gorgeous  ten 
dencies  of  her  imagination  their  full  play ;  arraying  her 
in  a  crimson  velvet  tunic,  of  a  peculiar  cut,  abundantly 
embroidered  with  fantasies  and  flourishes  of  gold  thread. 
So  much  strength  of  coloring,  which  must  have  given  a 
wan  and  pallid  aspect  to  cheeks  of  a  fainter  bloom,  was 
admirably  adapted  to  Pearl's  beauty,  and  made  her  the 
very  brightest  little  jet  of  flame  that  ever  danced  upon 
the  earth. 

But  it  was  a  remarkable  attribute  of  this  garb,  and, 
indeed,  of  the  child's  whole  appearance,  that  it  irresist 
ibly  and  inevitably  reminded  the  beholder  of  the  token 
which  Hester  Prynne  was  doomed  to  wear  upon  her 
bosom.  It  was  the  scarlet  letter  in  another  form ;  the 
scarlet  letter  endowed' with  life  !  The  mother  herself— 
as  if  the  red  ignominy  were  so  deeply  scorohed  into  hei 
brain  that  all  her  conceptions  assumed  its  form  —  had 
carefully  wrought  out  the  similitude;  lavishing  many 
hours  of  morbid  ingenuity,  to  create  an  analogy  between 
the  object  of  her  affection  and  the  emblem  of  her  guilt 
und  torture.  But,  in  truth,  Pearl  was  the  one,  as  well 
as  the  other;  and  only  in  consequence  of  that  identity 
had  Hester  contrived  so  perfectly  to  represent  the  scarlet 
letter  in  her  appearance. 

As  the  two  wayfarers  cnme  within  the  precincts  of 
the  town,  the  children  of  the  Puritans  looked  up/roro 


TIJK  GOVERNOR'S  HAM.  Ill 

their  play, — or  what  passed  for  play  with  those  sombre 
little  urchins, — and  spake  gravely  one  to  another:  — 

"  Behold,  verily,  there  is  the  woman  of  the  scarlet 
letter;  and,  of  a  truth,  moreover,  there  is  the  likeness 
of  the  scarlet  letter  running  along  by  her  side  !  Come, 
therefore,  and  let  us  fling  mud  at  them  !  " 

But  Pearl,  who  was  a  dauntless  child,  after  frowning, 
stamping  her  foot,  and  shaking  her  little  hand  with  a 
variety  of  threatening  gestures,  suddenly  made  a  rush 
at  the  knot  of  her  enemies,  and  put  them  all  to  flight. 
She  resembled,  in  her  fierce  pursuit  of  them,  an  infant 
pestilence, —  the  scarlet  fever,  or  some  such  half-fledged, 
angel  of  judgment,  —  whose  mission  was  to  punish  the 
sins  of  the  rising  generation.  She  screamed  and  shout 
ed,  too,  with  a  terrific  volume  of  sound,  which,  doubtless, 
caused  the  hearts  of  the  fugitives  to  quake  within  them. 
The  victory  accomplished,  Pearl  returned  quietly  to  hei 
mother,  and  looked  up,  smiling,  into  her  face. 

Without  further  adventure,  they  reached  the  dwelling 
of  Governor  Bellingham.  This  was  a  large  wooden 
house,  built  in  a  fashion  of  which  there  are  specimens 
still  extant  in  tlie  streets  of  our  elder  towns ;  now  moss- 
grown,  crumbling  to  decay,  and  melancholy  at  heart 
with  the  many  sorrowful  or  joyful  occurrences,  remem- 
^ercd  or  forgotten,  that  have  happened,  and  passed 
away,  within  their  dusky  chambers.  Then,  however, 
there  was  the  freshness  of  the  passing  year  on  its  exte 
rior,  and  the  cheerfulness,  gleaming  forth  from  the  sunny 
windows,  of  a  human  habitation,  into  which  death  had 
never  entered.  It  had,  indeed,  a  veiy  cheery  aspect; 
the  walls  being  overspread  with  a  kind  of  stucco,  in 
*hich  fragments  of  broken  glass  tfrere  plentifully  inter 


118  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

mixed;  so  that,  when  the  sunshine  fell  aslant-w;se 
the  front  of  the  edifice,  it  glittered  and  sparkled  as  if 
diamonds  had  been  flung  against  it  by  the  double 
handful.  The  brilliancy  might  have  befitted  Aladdin's 
palace,  rather  than  the  mansion  of  a  grave  old  Puritan 
ruler.  It  was  further  decorated  with  strange  and  seem 
ingly  cabalistic  figures  and  diagrams,  suitable  to  the 
quaint  taste  of  the  age,  which  had  been  drawn  in  the 
stucco  when  newly  laid  on,  and  had  now  grown  hard 
and  durable,  for  the  admiration  of  after  times. 

Pearl,  looking  at  this  bright  wonder  of  a  house,  began 
to  caper  and  dance,  and  imperatively  required  that  the 
whole  breadth  of  sunshine  should  be  stripped  off  ita 
front,  and  given  her  to  play  with. 

"No,  my  little  Pearl!"  said  her  mother.  "Thou 
must  gather  thine  own  sunshine.  I  have  none  to  give 
thee ! " 

They  approached  the  door ;  which  was  of  an  archei 
form,  and  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  narrow  tower  01 
projection  of  the  edifice,  in  both  of  which  were  lattice- 
windows,  with  wooden  shutters  to  close  over  then  at 
need.  Lifting  the  iron  hammer  that  hung  at  the  portal, 
Hester  Prynne  gave  a  summons,  which  was  answered 
by  one  of  the  Governor's  bond-servants;  a  free-born 
Englishman,  but  now  a  seven  years'  slave.  During 
that  term  he  was  to  be  the  property  of  his  master,  and 
as  much  a  commodity  of  bargain  and  sale  as  an  ox,  or 
a  joint-stool.  The  serf  wore  the  blue  coat,  which  was 
the  customary  garb  of  serving-men  at  that  period,  and 
1  mg  before,  in  the  old  hereditary  halls  of  England. 

"Is  the  worshipful   Governor   Bellingham  within? 
inquired  Hester. 


THE    GOVERNOR  S    HALL  1 19 

*4Yea,  forsooth,"  replied  the  bond-servant,  staring 
with  wide-open  eyes  at  the  scarlet  letter,  which,  being  a 
new-comer  in  the  country,  he  had  never  before  seen. 
"  Yea,  his  honorable  worship  is  within.  But  he  hath  a 
godly  minister  or  two  with  him,  and  likewise  a  leech. 
Ye  may  not  see  his  worship  now." 

**  Nevertheless,  I  will  enter,"  answered  Hester  Prynne, 
and  the  bond-servant,  perhaps  judging  from  the  decision 
of  her  air,  and  the  glittering  symbol  in  her  bosom,  that 
she  was  a  great  lady  in  the  land,  offered  no  opposition. 

So  the  mother  and  little  Pearl  were  admitted  into 
the  hall  of  entrance.  With  many  variations,  suggested 
by  the  nature  of  his  building-materials,  diversity  of 
climate,  and  a  different  mode  of  social  life,  Governo* 
Bellingham  had  planned  his  new  habitation  after  the 
residences  of  gentlemen  of  fair  estate  in  his  native  land. 
Here,  then,  was*  a  wide  and  reasonably  lofty  hall,  ex 
tending  through  the  whole  depth  of  the  house,  and 
forming  a  medium  of  general  communication,  more  01 
less  directly,  with  all  the  other  apartments.  At  one 
extremity,  this  spacious  room  was  lighted  by  the  win 
dows  of  the  two  towers,  which  formed  a  small  recess  on 
either  side  of  the  portal.  At  the  other  end,  though 
partly  muffled  by  a  curtain,  it  was  more  powerfully 
illuminated  by  one  of  those  embowed  hall-windows 
which  we  read  of  in  old  books,  and  which  was  provided 
'vith  a  keep  and  cushioned  seat.  Here,  on  the  cushion, 
fay  a  folio  tome,  probably  of  the  Chronicles  of  England, 
or  other  such  substantial  literature ;  even  as,  in  our  own 
days,  we  scatter  gilded  volumes  on  the  centre-table,  to 
be  turned  over  by  the  casual  guest.  The  furniture  oi 
the  hall  consisted  of  some  ponderous  chairs,  the  hcck» 


120  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

of  which  were  elaborately  carved  with  wreaths  of  oaken 
flowers ;  and  likewise  a  table  in  the  same  taste ;  the 
whole  being  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  or  perhaps  earlier, 
and  heirlooms,  transferred  hither  from  the  Governor's 
paternal  home.  On  the  table  —  in  token  that  the  sen 
timent  of  old  English  hospitality  had  not  been  left 
behind  —  stood  a  large  pewter  tankard,  at  the  bottom  of 
which,  had  Hester  or  Pearl  peeped  into  it,  they  might 
have  seen  the  frothy  remnant  of  a  recent  draught  of 
ale. 

On  the  wall  hung  a  row  of  portraits,  representing  the 
forefathers  of  the  Bellingham  lineage,  some  with  armor 
on  their  breasts,  and  others  with  stately  ruffs  and  robes 
of  peace.     All  were  charactenzejlj^jhi^^ 
severity  ~~\^iek--ekLpoxiraits~^^  p'iit-oa4_asjf 

theyLwere— the  ghosts,  rather  than  the__pictures,  of  de 
parted  worthies,  and  were  gazing  with'  harsh  and  intol 
erant  criticism  at  the  pursuits  and  enjoyments  of  living 
men. 

At  about  the  centre  of  the  oaken  panels,  that  lined 
the  hall,  was  suspended  a  suit  of  mail,  not,  like  the 
pictures,  an  ancestral  relic,  but  of  the  most  modern  date; 
for  it  had  been  manufactured  by  a  skilful  armorer  ir 
London,  the  same  year  in  which  Governor  Bellinghai.. 
came  over  to  New  England.  There  was  a  steel  head 
piece,  a  cuirass,  a  gorget,  and  greaves,  with  a  pair  ol 
gauntlets  and  a  sword  hanging  beneath  ;  all,  and  espec 
ial  ly  the  helmet  and  breastplate,  so  highly  burnished 
as  to  glow  with  white  radiance,  and  scatter  an  illumina 
tion  everywhere  about  upon  the  floor.  This  bright 
panoply  was  not  meant  for  mere  idle  show,  but  had 
been  worn  by  the  Governor  on  many  a  solemn  muster 


THE    GOVERNOR'S    HALL.  12) 

and  training  field,  and  had  glittered,  moreover,  at  the 
head  of  a  r  ;giment  in  the  Pequod  war.  For,  though 
bred  a  law;  er,  and  accustomed  to  speak  of  Bacon,  Coke, 
Noje,  and  Finch,  as  his  professional  associates,  the  ex 
igences  of  this  new  country  had  transformed  Governor 
Belli Dgham  into  a  soldier,  as  well  as  a  statesman  and 
ruler. 

Little  Pearl  —  who  was  as  greatly  pleased  with  the 
gleaming  armor  as  she  had  been  with  the  glittering  frop 
tispiece  of  the  house  —  spent  some  time  looking  into  the 
polished  mirror  of  the  breastplate. 

"  Mother,"  cried  she,  "  I  see  you  here.  Look  ! 
Look ! " 

Hester  looked,  by  way  of  humoring  the  child ;  and 
she  saw  that,  owing  to  the  peculiar  effect  of  this  con 
vex  mirror,  the  scarlet  letter  was  represented  in  exagger 
ated  and  gigantic  proportions,  so  as  to  be  greatly  the 
most  prominent  feature  of  her  appearance.  In  truth, 
she  seemed  absolutely  hidden  behind  it.  Pearl  pointed 
upward,  also,  at  a  similar  picture  in  the  head-piece ; 
smiling  at  her  mother,  with  the  elfish  intelligence  that 
was  so  familiar  an  expression  on  her  small  physiognomy. 
That  look  of  naughty  merriment  was  likewise  reflected 
in  the  mirror,  with  so  much  breadth  and  intensity  of 
effect,  that  it  made  Hester  Prynne  feel  as  if  it  could  not 
be  the  image  of  her  own  child,  but  of  an  imp  who  was 
seeking  to  mould  itself  into  Pearl's  shape. 

"  Come  along,  Pearl,"  said  she,  drawing  her  away. 
1  Come  and  look  into  this  rair  garden.  It  may  be,  we 
shall  see  flowers  there ;  more  beautiful  ones  than  we  find 
in  the  woods." 

Pearl    accordingly,  ran  to  the  bo^r-wirdow,  a*    th« 


2  THE    SCARLET    LETTEH. 

further  end  of  the  hall,  and  looked  along  the  vista  r( 
a  garden-walk,  carpeted  with  closely  shaver1  grass,  and 
bordered  with  some  rude  and  immature  attempt  at  shrul> 
bery.  But  the  proprietor  appeared  already  to  have  re 
linquished,  as  hopeless,  the  effort  to  perpetuate  on  this 
side  >f  the  Atlantic,  in  a  hard  soil  and  amid  the  close 
struggle  for  subsistence,  the  native  English  taste  for 
ornamental  gardening.  Cabbages  grew  in  plain  sight; 
and  a  pumpkin-vine,  rooted  at  some  distance,  had  run 
across  the  intervening  space,  and  deposited  one  of  its 
gigantic  products  directly  beneath  the  hall-window ;  as 
if  to  warn  tbe  Governor  that  this  great  lump  of  vegetable 
gold  was  as  rich  an  ornament  as  New  England  earth 
would  offer  him.  There  were  a  few  rose-bushes,  how 
ever,  and  a  number  of  apple-trees,  probably  the  descend 
ants  of  those  plarted  by  the  Reverend  Mr.  Blackstone, 
the  first  settler  of  ih°.  peninsula ;  that  half  mythological 
,  <srsonage,  who  rides  through  our  early  annals,  seated  on 
,.ue  back  of  a  bull. 

Pearl,  seeing  the  rose-bufhes,  began  to  cry  for  a  red 
rose,  and  would  not  be  pacified, 

"Hush,   child,   hush!"  said   her    mother,  earnestly, 

JL)o  not  cry,  dear  little  Pearl !  I  h?ar  voices  in  the 
garden.  The  Governor  is  coming,  and  gentlemen  along 
with  him ! " 

In  fact,  adown  the  vista  of  the  garden  a  venue,  a  num 
her  of  persons  were  se°r  approaching  toward*  the  house. 
Pearl ,  in  utter  scorn  of  her  mother's  attempt  to  quiet  her, 
gave  an  eldritch  scream,  and  then  became  silent;  not 
irorn  any  notion  of  obedience,  but  because  the  quick  and 
mobile  curiosity  of  her  disposition  vra;?  excited  by  the 
ippearanse  of  these  new 


THE   ELF-CHILD   ANr    THE    MINISTER  (23 


VIII. 

THE  ELF-CHILD  AND  THE  MINISTER. 

(JO^ERNOR  BELLINGHAM,  in  a  loose  gown  and  easy 
cap,  —  such  as  elderly  gentlemen  loved  to  endue  them 
selves  with,  in  their  domestic  privacy,  —  walked  fore 
most,  and  appeared  to  be  showing  off  his  estate,  and 
expatiating  on  his  projected  improvements.  The  wide 
circumference  of  an  elaborate  ruff,  beneath  his  gray 
beard,  in  the  antiquated  fashion  of  King  James'  reign, 
caused  his  head  to  look  not  a  little  like  that  of  John  the 
Baptist  in  a  charger.  The  impression  made  by  his 
aspect,  so  rigid  and  severe,  and  frost-bitten  with  more 
than  autumnal  age,  was  hardly  in  keeping  with  the  ap 
pliances  of  worldly  enjoyment  wherewith  he  had  evi 
dently  done  his  utmost  to  surround  himself.  But  it  is 
an  error  to  suppose  that  our  grave  forefathers  —  though 
accustomed  to  speak  and  think  of  human  existence  as  a 
state  merely  of  trial  and  warfare,  and  though  imfeignedjv 
prepared  to  sacrifice  goods  and  life  at  the  behest  .of  jiutjiL 
—  made  it  a  matter  of  conscience  to  reject  such  means 
of  comfort,  or  even  luxury,  as  lay  fairly  within  theii 
grasp.  This  creed  was  never  taught,  for  instance,  by 
the  venerable  pastor,  John  Wilson,  whose  beard,  white 
as  a  snow-drift,  was  seen  over  Governor  Bellingham's 
shoulder;  while  its  wearer  suggested  that  pears  and 
peaches  might  yet  be  naturalized  in  the  New  England 
climate,  and  that  purple  grapes  might  possibly  be  com 
pelled  lo  flc  irish  against  the  sunny  garden-wall  Tb« 


124  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

old  clerg-ynan,  nurtured  at  the  rich  bosom  of  the  Eng 
lish  Church,  had  a  long-established  and  legitimate  taste 
for  all  good  and  comfortable  things ;  and  however  stem 
he  might  show  himself  in  the  pulpit,  or  in  his  public 
reproof  of  such  transgressions  as  that  of  Hester  Prynne> 
still,  the  genial  benevolence  of  his  private  life  had  woi< 
him  warmer  affection  than  was  accorded  to  any  of  hia 
professional  contemporaries. 

Behind  the  Governor  and  Mr.  Wilson  came  two  othei 
guests ;  one,  the  Reverend  Arthur  Dimiresdale,  whom 
the  reader  may  remember,  as  having  taken  a  brief  and 
reluctant  part  in  the  scene  of  Hester  Prynne's  disgrace  ; 
arid,  in  close  companionship  with  him,  old  Roger  Chil- 
lingworth,  a  person  of  great  skill  in  physic,  who,  for  two 
or  three  years  past,  had  been  settled  in  the  town.  It 
was  understood  that  this  learned  man  was  the  physician 
as  well  as  friend  of  the  young  minister,  whose  health 
had  severely  suffered,  of  late,  by  his  too  unreserved  self- 
sacrifice  to  the  labors  and  duties  of  the  pastoral  rela 
tion. 

The  Governor,  in  advance  of  his  visitors,  ascended 
one  or  two  steps,  and,  throwing  open  the  leaves  of  the 
great  hall  window,  found  himself  close  to  little  Pearl. 
The  shadow  of  the  curtain  fell  on  Hester  Prynne,  and 
partially  concealed  her. 

"  What  have  tve  here  ?  "  said  Governor  Bellingham, 
looking  with  surprise  at  the  scarlet  little  figure  before 
him.  "  I  profess,  I  have  never  seen  the  like,  since  my 
days  of  vanity,  in  old  King  James'  time,  when  I  was 
wont  to  esteem  it  a  high  favor  to  be  admitted  to  a  court 
mask !  There  used  to  be  a  swarm  of  these  small  ap 
paritions,  in  holiday  time  ;  and  wt  ?alled  them  children 


THE    ELF-CHILD   AND    THE    MINISTlitt.  125 

of  the  Lord  of  Misrule.  But  how  gat  such  a  guest  into 
my  hall  ? u 

"Ay,  indeed  !  "  cried  good  old  Mr.  Wilson.  "  What 
little  bird  of  scarlet  plumage  may  this  be  ?  Methinks* 
I  have  seen  just  such  figures,  when  the  sun  has  been 
shining  through  a  richly  painted  window,  and  tracing 
out  the  golden  and  crimson  images  across  the  floor. 
But  that  was  in  the  old  land.  Prithee,  young  one,  who 
art  thou,  and  what  has  ailed  thy  mother  to  bedizen  thee 
in  this  strange  fashion  ?  Art  thou  a  Christian  child,  — 
ha  ?  Dost  know  thy  catechism  ?  Or  art  thou  one  of 
those  naughty  elfs  or  fairies,  whom  we  thought  to  have 
left  behind  us,  with  other  relics  of  Papistry,  in  merry 
old  England?" 

"  I  am  mother's  child,"  answered  the  scarlet  vision, 
"  and  my  name  is  Pearl !  " 

"  Pearl  ?  —  Ruby,  rather !  —  or  Coral !  —  or  Red  Rose, 
at  the  very  least,  judging  from  thy  hue  !  "  responded  the 
old  minister,  putting  forth  his  hand  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
pat  little  Pearl  on  the  cheek.  "  But  where  is  this  mother 
of  thine  ?  Ah  !  I  see,"  he  added  ;  and,  turning  to  Gov 
ernor  Bellingham,  whispered,  "  This  is  the  selfsame 
child  of  whom  we  have  held  speech  together;  and 
behold  here  the  unhappy  woman,  Hester  Prynnc,  her 
mother ! " 

"  Sayest  thou  so?"  cried  the  Governor.  "IN ay,  we 
might  have  judged  that  such  a  child's  mother  must  needs 
ne  a  scarlet  woman,  and  a  worthy  type  of  her  of  Baby- 
!on  !  But  she  comes  at  a  good  time  ;  ind  we  will  look 
into  this  matter  forthwith." 

Governor  Bellingham  stepped  through  the  window 
into  the  hall  followed  by  his  three  guests. 


126  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

"  Hester  Prynne,"  said  he,  fixing  his  naturally  steru 
rr-gird  on  the  wearer  of  the  scarlet  letter,  "there  hath 
been  much  question  concerning  thee,  of  late.  The 
point  hath  been  weightily  discussed,  whether  we,  th»* 
are  of  authority  and  influence,  do  well  dischaige  ou* 
consciences  by  trusting  an  immortal  soul,  such  as  ther« 
is  in  yonder  child,  to  the  guidance  of  one  who  hat> 
stumbled  and  fallen,  amid  the  pitfalls  of  this  world 
Speak  thou,  the  child's  own  mother!  Were  it  not 
thickest  thou,  for  thy  little  one's  temporal  and  eternal 
welfare,  that  she  be  taken  out  of  thy  charge,  and  clat- 
soberly,  and  disciplined  strictly,  and  instructed  in  tht 
truths  of  heaven  and  earth  ?  What  canst  thou  do  fo» 
.he  child,  in  this  kind?" 

"I  can  teach  my  little  Pearl  what  I  have  learned 
from  this ! "  answered  Hester  Prynne,  laying  her  fingei 
on  the  red  token. 

"  Woman,  it  is  thy  badge  of  shame ! "  replied  the  stem 
magistrate.  "  It  is  because  of  the  stain  which  that  lette- 
indicates,  that  we  would  transfer  thy  child  to  otho 
hands." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  the  mother,  calmly,  though 
growing  more  pale,  "this  badge  hath  taught  me,  —  ii 
daily  teaches  me,  —  it  is  teaching  me  at  this  moment 
—  lessons  whereof  my  child  may  be  the  wiser  ana 
better,  albeit  they  can  profit  nothing  to  myself." 

"  We  will  judge  warily,"  said  Bellingham,  "  ana  .ook 

well  what  we  are  about  to  do.     Good  Master  Wilson,  j 

Dray  you,  examine  this  Pearl,  —  since  that  is  her  name. 

—  and  see  whether  she  hath  had  such  Christian  nurture 

as  befits  a  child  of  her  age." 

The  old  minister  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair,  ana 


THE    ELF-CHILD   AND   THE    ZI1NISTEH.  Wt 

made  an  effort  to  draw  Pearl  betwixt  his  knees.  But 
the  child,  unaccustomed  to  the  touch  or  familiarity  of 
any  but  her  mother,  escaped  through  the  open  window, 
and  stood  on  the  upper  step,  looking  like  a  wild  tropical 
bird,  of  rich  plumage,  ready  to  take  flight  into  the  upper 
air.  Mr.  Wilson,  not  a  little  astonished  at  this  out 
break,  —  for  he  was  a  grandfatherly  sort  of  personage, 
and  usually  a  vast  favorite  with  children,  —  essayed, 
however,  to  proceed  with  the  examination. 

"  Pearl,"  said  he,  with  great  solemnity,  "  thou  must 
take  heed  to  instruction,  that  so,  in  due  season,  thou 
mayest  wear  in  thy  bosom  the  pearl  of  great  price. 
Canst  thou  tell  me,  my  child,  who  made  thee  ? " 

Now  Pearl  knew  well  enough  who  made  her;  for 
Hester  Prynne,  the  daughter  of  a  pious  home,  very  soon 
after  her  talk  with  the  child  about  her  Heavenly 
Father,  had  begun  to  inform  her  of  those  truths  which 
the  human  spirit,  at  whatever  stage  of  immaturity, 
imbibes  with  such  eager  interest.  Pearl,  therefore,  so 
large  were  the  attainments  of  her  three  years'  lifetime, 
could  have  borne  a  fair  examination  in  the  New  England 
Primer,  or  the  first  column  of  the  Westminster  Gate- 
tnisms,  although  unacquainted  with  the  outward  form 
of  either  of  those  celebrated  works.  But  that  perversity, 
which  all  children  have  more  or  less  of,  and  of  which 
little  Pearl  had  a  ten-fold  portion,  now,  at  the  most  inop 
portune  moment,  took  thorough  possession  of  her,  and 
closed  her  lips,  or  impelled  her  to  speak  words  amiss. 
After  putting  her  finger  in  her  mouth,  with  many 
ungracious  refusals  to  answer  good  Mr.  Wilson's  ques 
tion,  the  child  finally  announced  that  she  had  not  been 
made  at  all,  but  had  been  plucked  by  her  mother 


liJS  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

off  the  bush  of  wild  roses  that  grew   by  the   piison 
door. 

This  fantasy  was  probably  suggested  by  the  neai 
proximity  of  the  Governor's  red  roses,  as  Pearl  stood 
outside  of  the  window;  together  with  her  recollection 
of  the  prison  rose-bush,  which  she  had  passed  in  coming 
hither. 

Old  Roger  Chillingworth,  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
whispered  something  in  the  young  clergyman's  ear. 
Hester  Prynne  looked  at  the  man  of  skill,  and  even 
then,  with  her  fate  hanging  in  the  balance,  was  startled 
to  perceive  what  a  change  had  come  over  his  features, 
—  how  much  uglier  they  were,  —  how  his  dark  com 
plexion  seemed  to  have  grown  duskier,  and  his  figure 
more  misshapen,  —  since  the  days  when  she  had  famil 
iarly  known  him.  She  met  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  but 
was  immediately  constrained  to  give  all  her  attention  to 
the  scene  now  going  forward. 

"  This  is  awful ! "  cried  the  Governor  jwly  recov 
ering  from  the  astonishmept  into  which  Pearl's  response 
had  thrown  him.  "  Here  is  a  child  of  three  years  old, 
and  she  cannot  tell  who  made  her !  Without  question, 
she  is  equally  in  the  dark  as  to  her  soul,  its  present 
depravity,  and  future  destiny!  Methinks,  gentlemen, 
we  need  inquire  no  further." 

Hester  caught  hold  of  Pearl,  and  drew  her  forcibly 
into  her  arms,  confronting  the  old  Puritan  magistrate 
with  almost  a  fierce  expression.  Alone  in  the  world, 
cast  off  by  it,  and  with  this  sole  treasure  to  keep  he? 
alive,  she  felt  that  she  possessed  indefeasible 
against  the  world,  and  was  ready  to  detend  thorn 
dear.1!. 


THE    ELF-CHILD   AND   THE    MINISTER.  129 

"  God  gave  me  the  child ! "  cried  she.  "  He  gave  hei 
m  requital  of  all  things  else,  which  ye  had  taken  from 
me.  She  is  my  happiness! — she  is  my  torture,  none 
tke  less !  Pearl  keeps  me  here  in  life  !  Pearl  punishes 
me  too!  See  ye  not,  she  is  the  scarlet  letter,  only 
capable  of  being  loved,  and  so  endowed  with  a  million- 
fold  the  power  of  retribution  for  my  sin  ?  Ye  shall  not 
take  her !  I  will  die  first ! " 

"  My  poor  woman,"  said  the  not  unkind  old  minister, 
"the  child  shall  be  wtil  cared  for! — far  better  than 
thou  canst  do  it." 

"  God  gave  her  into  my  keeping,"  repeated  Hester 
Prynne,  raising  her  voice  almost  to  a  shriek.  "  I  will 
not  give  her  up ! "  —  And  here,  by  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  turned  to  the  young  clergyman,  Mr.  Dimmesdale 
at  whom,  up  to  this  moment,  she  had  seemed  hardly  st 
much  as  once  to  direct  her  eyes.  —  "  Speak  thou  fo 
me ! "  cried  she.  "  Thou  wast  my  pastor,  and  hads 
charge  of  my  soul,  and  knowest  me  better  than  these 
men  can.  I  will  not  lose  the  child !  Speak  for  me  • 
Thou  knowest,  —  for  thou  hast  sympathies  which  these 
men  lack !  —  thou  knowest  what  is  in  my  heart,  and 
what  are  a  mother's  rights,  and  how  much  the  strongei 
they  are,  when  that  mother  has  but  her  child  and  the 
scarlet  letter!  Look  thou  to  it!  I  will  not  lose  the 
child!  Look  to  it!" 

At  this  wild  and  singular  appeal,  which  indicated  that 
Hester  Prynne's  situation  had  provoked  her  to  little  lees 
than  madness,  the  young  minister  at  once  came  forward, 
pale,  and  holding  his  hand  over  his  Ireart,  as  was  his 
custom  whenever  his  peculiarly  nervous  temperament 
*a*>  thrown  into  agitation.  He  looked  now  more  care 
9 


130  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

worn  rfnH  qmaciated  than  as  we  described  him  at  tK« 
scene  ui  Hester's  public  ignominy ;  and  whether  it  were 
his  failing  health,  or  whatever  the  cause  might  be,  his 
large  dark  eyes  had  a  world  of  pain  in  their  troubled 
and  melancholy  depth. 

"  There  is  truth  in  what  she  says,"  began  the  minis- 
tei,  with  a  voice  sweet,  tremulous,  but  powerful,  inso 
much  that  the  hall  reechoed,  and  the  hollow  armor  rang 
with  it,  —  "  truth  in  what  Hester  says,  arid  in  the  feel 
ing  which  inspires  her!  God  gave  her  the  child,  and 
gave  her,  too,  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  its  nature  arid 
requirements,  —  both  seemingly  so  peculiar,  —  which  no 
other  mortal  being  can  possess.  And,  moreover,  is  there 
not  a  quality  of  awful  sacredness  in  the  relation  between 
this  mother  and  this  child  ?" 

"Ay!  —  how  is  that,  good  Master  Dimmesdale?" 
interrupted  the  Governor.  "Make  that  plain,  I  pray 
you!" 

"  It  must  be  even  so,"  resumed  the  minister.  "  For, 
if  we  deem  it  otherwise,  do  we  not  thereby  say  that  tJiB 
Heavenly  Father,  the  Creator  of  all  flesh,  hath  lightly 
recognized  a  deed  of  sin,  and  made  of  no  account  the 
distinction  between  unhallowed  lust  and  holy  love? 
This  child  of  its  father's  guilt  and  its  mother's  shame 
hath  come  from  the  hand  of  God,  to  work  in  many 
ways  upon  her  heart,  who  pleads  so  eainestly,  and  with 
such  bitterness  of  spirit,  the  right  to  keep  her.  It  was 
meant  for  a  blessing ;  for  the  one  blessing  of  her  life ! 
It  was  meant,  doubtless,  as  the  mother  herself  hath  told 
as,  for  a  retribution  too ;  a  torture  to  be  felt  at  many  an 
dnthought  of  moment ;  a  pang,  a  sting,  an  ever-recur 
ring  agony,  in  the  midst  of  a  troubled  joy !  Hath  sb« 


THE    ELF-C&TLD   AND   THE    MLMSFER  ILj 

not  expressed  this  thought  in  the  gi,b  of  the  poor  child 
ao  forcibly  reminding  us  of  that  red  symbol  which  sears 
her  bosom?" 

"\Vell  said,  again!"  med  good  Mr.  Wilson.  "1 
feared  the  woman  had  no  better  thought  than  to  make 
a  mountebank  of  her  child ! " 

"  O,  not  so  !  —  not  so ! "  continued  Mr.  Dimmesdale 
u  She  recognizes,  believe  me,  the  solemn  miracle  which 
God  hath  wrought,  in  the  existence  of  that  child.  And 
may  she  feel,  too,  —  what,  methinks,  is  the  very  truth 
—  that  this  boon  was  meant,  above  all  things  else,  to 
keep  the  mother's  soul  alive,  and  to  preserve  her  from 
blacker  depths  of  sin  into  which  Satan  might  else  have 
sought  to  plunge  her!  Therefore  it  is  good  for  this 
po^>r,  sinful  woman  that  she  hath  an  infant  immortality, 
a  being  capable  of  eternal  joy  or  sorrow,  confided  to 
hzr  care,  —  to  be  trained  up  by  her  to  righteousness, — 
to  remind  her,  at  every  moment,  of  her  fall,  —  but  yet 
to  teach  her,  as  it  were  by  the  Creator's  sacred  pledge, 
that,  if  she  bring  the  child  to  heaven,  the  child  also 
will  bring  its  parent  thither!  Herein  is  the  sinfuj 
mother  happier  than  the  sinful  father.  For  Hester 
Prynne's  sake,  then,  and  no  less  for  the  poor  child's 
sake,  let  us  leave  them  as  Providence  hath  seen  fit  to 
place  them ! " 

"  You  speak,  my  friend,  with  a  strange  earnestness,*" 
said  old  Roger  Chill ingworth,  smiling  at  him. 

"  And  tnere  is  a  weighty  import  in  what  my  young 
orother  hath  spoken,"  added  the  Keverend  Mr.  Wilson. 
''What  say  you,  worshipful  Master  Bellinghao  ?  Hath 
he  not  pleaded  well  for  the  poor  woman  ?  " 

*•  indeed  hath  he,"  answered  the  magistrate  "  and  hatb 


132  THE  SCAR1ET  LETTER. 

adduced  such  arguments,  that  we  will  even  leave  the 
matter  as  it  now  stands  ;  so  long,  at  least,  as  there  shalj 
be  no  further  scandal  in  the  woman.  Care  must  be  had, 
nevertheless,  to  put  the  child  to  due  and  stated  examina 
tion  in  the  catechism,  at  thy  hands  or  Master  Dimmes- 
dale's.  Moreover,  at  a  proper  season,  the  tith ing-men 
must  take  heed  that  she  go  both  to  school  and  to  meet 
ing." 

The  young  minister,  en  ceasing  to  speak,  had  witK 
drawn  a  few  steps  from  the  group,  and  stood  with  his  fac« 
partially  concealed  in  the  heavy  folds  of  the  window- 
curtain ;  while  the  shadow  of  his  figure,  which  the  sunlight 
cast  upon  the  floor,  was  tremulous  with  the  vehemence 
of  his  appeal.  Pearl,  that  wild  and  flighty  little  ell. 
stole  softly  towards  him,  and  taking  his  hand  in  the  gra^i 
of  both  her  own,  laid  her  cheek  against  it ;  a  caress  sc 
tender,  and  withal  so  unobtrusive,  that  her  mother,  who 
was  looking  on,  asked  herself,  —  "Is  that  my  Pearl?' 
Yet  she  knew  that  there  was  love  in  the  child's  heart, 
although  it  mostly  revealed  itself  in  passion,  and  hardly 
twice  in  her  lifetime  had  been  softened  by  such  gentle 
ness  as  now.  The  minister,  —  for,  save  the  long-souglu 
regards  of  woman,  nothing  is  sweeter  than  these  marks 
of  childish  preference,  accorded  spontaneously  by  a  spir 
itual  instinct,  and  therefore  seeming  to  imply  in  us  some 
thing  truly  worthy  to  be  loved, — the  minister  looked 
round,  laid  his  hand  on  the  child's  head,  hesitated  an  in 
stant,  and  then  kissed  her  brow.  Little  Pearl's  unwonted 
mood  of  sentiment  lasted  no  longer ;  she  laughed,  and 
went  capering  down  the  haU  so  airily,  that  old  Mr  Wil 
son  raised  a  question  vvhether  even  hei  tiptoes  touched 
the  floor. 


THE    ELI -CHILD   AND   THE    MlMSTfift.  133 

The  little  baggage  hath  witchcraft  in  her,  i  profess," 
mid  he  to  Mr.  Dirnmesdale.  "  She  needs  no  old  woman'.* 
broomstick  to  fly  withal !  " 

"  A  strange  child  !  "  remarked  old  Roger  Chillingworth 
"  It  is  easy  to  see  the  mother's  part  in  her.  Would  it  be 
beyond  a  philosopher's  research,  think  ye,  gentlemen,  to 
analyze  that  child's  nature,  and,  from  its  make  and  mould, 
to  give  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  father  ? " 

"  Nay  ;  it  would  be  sinful,  in  such  a  question,  to  fol 
low  the  clew  of  profane  philosophy,"  said  Mr.  Wilson. 
"  Better  to  fast  and  pray  upon  it ;  and  still  better,  it  may 
be,  to  leave  the  mystery  as  we  find  it,  unless  Providence 
reveal  it  of  its  ^wn  accord.  Thereby,  every  good  Chris 
tian  man  hath  a  title  to  show  a  father's  kindness  towards 
the  poor,  deserted  babe." 

The  affair  being  so  satisfactorily  concluded,  Hester 
Prynne,  with  Pearl,  departed  from  the  house.  As  they 
descended  the  steps,  it  is  averred  that  the  lattice  of  a 
chamber-window  was  thrown  open,  and  forth  into  the 
sunny  day  was  thrust  the  face  of  Mistress  Hibbins,  Gov 
ernor  Bellingham's  bitter-tempered  sister,  and  the  same 
who,  a  few  years  later,  was  executed  as  a  witch. 

"  Hist,  hist !  "  said  she,  while  her  ill-omened  physiog 
nomy  seemed  to  cast  a  shadow  over  the  cheerful  newness 
of  the  house.  "  Wilt  thou  go  with  us  to-night?  There 
will  be  a  merry  company  in  the  forest ;  and  I  well-nigh 
promised  the  Black  Man  that  comely  Hester  Prynne 
should  make  one." 

"  Make  my  excuse  to  him,  so  please  you !  "  answered 
Hester,  with  a  triumphant  smile.  "  I  must  tarry  at  home, 
and  keep  watch  over  my  little  Pearl.  Had  they  taken 
her  from  me,  I  would  willingly  have  gone  with  thee  into 


134  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

the  forest,  and  signed  my  name  in  the  Black  Man's  book 
too,  and  that  with  mine  own  blood  !  " 

"  We  shall  have  thee  there  anon  !  "  said  the  witch- 
lady,  frowning,  as  she  drew  back  her  head. 

But  here  —  if  we  suppose  this  interview  betwixt  Mis- 
tress  Hibbins  and  Hester  Prynne  to  be  authentic,  and  not 
a  parable  —  was  already  an  illustration  of  the  young 
minister's  argument  against  sundering  the  relation  of  a 
fallen  mother  to  the  offspring  of  her  frailty.  E\  en  thus 
aaily  had  the  child  saved  her  from  Satan's  snare. 


THE    LEECH,  135 


IX. 

THE  LEECH. 

UNDER  the  appellation  of  Roger  Chillingworth,  the 
reader  will  remember,  was  hidden  another  name,  which 
its  former  wearer  had  resolved  should  never  more  be 
spoken.  It  has  been  related,  how,  in  the  crowd  that  wit 
nessed  Hester  Prynne's  ignominious  exposure,  stood  a 
man,  elderly,  travel-worn,  who,  just  emerging  from  the 
perilous  wilderness,  beheld  the  woman,  in  whom  he  hoped 
to  find  embodied  the  warmth  and  cheerfulness  of  home, 
set  up  as  a  type  of  sin  before  the  people.  Her  matronly 
fame  was  trodden  under  all  men's  feet.  Infamy  was  bab 
bling  around  her  in  the  public  market-place.  For  her 
kindred,  should  the  tidings  ever  reach  them,  and  for  the 
companions  of  her  unspotted  life,  there  remained  nothing 
but  the  contagion  of  her  dishonor ;  which  would  not  fail 
to  be  distributed  in  strict  accordance  and  proportion  with 
the  intimacy  arid  sacredness  of  their  previous  relation 
ship.  Then  why  —  since  the  choice  was  with  himself — 
should  the  individual,  whose  connection  with  the  fallen 
woman  had  been  the  most  intimate  and  sacred  of  them 
all,  come  forward  to  vindicate  his  claim  to  an  inheritance 
so  little  desirable  ?  He  resolved  not  to  be  pilloried  beside 
her  on  her  pedestal  of  shame.  Unknown  to  all  but  Hes 
ter  Prynne,  and  possessing  the  lock  and  key  of  her  silence, 
he  chose  to  withdraw  his  name  from  the  roll  of  mankind, 
and,  as  regarded  his  former  ties  and  interests,  to  vanish 
out  of  life  as  completely  as  if  he  indeed  lay  ?  t  the  bottom 


136  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

of  the  ocean,  whither  rumor  had  long  ago  consigned  hint 
This  purpose  once  effected,  new  interests  would  imme 
diately  spring  up,  and  likewise  a  new  purpose ;  dark,  it 
is  true,  if  not  guilty,  but  of  force  enough  to  engage  the 
full  strength  of  his  faculties. 

In  pursuance  of  this  resolve,  he  took  up  his  residence 
in  the  Puritan  town,  as  Roger  Chillingworth,  without 
other  introduction  than  the  learning  and  intelligence  of 
which  he  possessed  more  than  a  common  measure.  As 
his  studies,  at  a  previous  period  of  his  life,  had  made  him 
extensively  acquainted  with  the  medical  science  of  the 
day,  it  was  as  a  physician  that  he  presented  himself,  and 
as  such  was  cordially  received.  Skilful  men,  of  the 
medical  and  chirurgical  profession,  were  of  rare  occur 
rence  in  the  colony.  They  seldom,  it  would  appear,  par 
took  of  the  religious  zeal  that  brought  other  emigrants 
across  the  Atlantic.  In  their  researches  into  the  human 
frame,  it  may  be  that  the  higher  and  more  subtile  facul 
ties  of  such  men  were  materialized,  and  that  they  lost 
the  spiritual  view  of  existence  amid  the  intricacies  of  that 
wondrous  mechanism,  which  seemed  to  involve  art  enough 
to  comprise  all  of  life  within  itself.  At  all  events,  the 
health  of  the  good  town  of  Boston,  so  far  as  medicine 
had  aught  to  do  with  it,  had  hitherto  lain  in  the  guardian 
ship  of  an  aged  deacon  and  apothecary,  whose  piety  and 
godly  deportment  were  stronger  testimonials  in  his  favo? 
than  any  that  he  could  have  produced  in  the  shape  of  h 
diploma.  The  only  surgeo  i  was  one  who  combined  the 
occasional  exercise  of  that  noble  art  with  the  daily  and 
habitual  flourish  of  a  razor.  To  such  a  professional  body 
linger  Chillingworth  was  a  brilliant  acquisition.  He  soon 
iiaiiifested  his  familiarity  with  the  ponderous  and  impos- 


THE    LEECH.  i'5"7 

ing  machinery  of  antique  physic  ;  in  which  every  remedy 
contained  a  multitude  of  far-fetched  and  heterogeifeous 
ingredients,  as  elaborately  compounded  as  if  the  proposed 
result  had  been  the  Elixir  of  Life.  In  his  Indian  cap 
tivity,  moreover,  he  had  gained  much  knowledge  of  the 
properties  of  native  herbs  and  roots ;  nor  did  he  conceal 
from  his  patients,  that  these  simple  medicines,  Nature's 
boon  to  the  untutored  savage,  had  quite  as  large  a  share 
of  his  own  confidence  as  the  European  pharmacopeia, 
which  so  many  learned  doctors  had  spent  centuries  in 
elaborating. 

This  learned  stranger  was  exemplary,  as  regarded,  at 
least,  the  outward  forms  of  a  religious  life,  and,  early  after 
his  arrival,  had  chosen  for  his  spiritual  guide  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Dimmesdale.  The  young  divine,  whose  scholar-like 
renown  still  lived  in  Oxford,  was  considered  by  his  more 
fervent  admirers  as  little  less  than  a  heavenly-ordained 
apostle,  destined,  should  he  live  and  labor  for  the  ordi 
nary  term  of  life,  to  do  as  great  deeds  for  the  now  feeble 
New  England  Church,  as  the  early  Fathers  had  achieved 
for  the  infancy  of  the  Christian  faith.  About  this,  period, 
however,  the  health  of  Mr.  Dimmesdale  had  evidently 
oegun  to  fail.  By  those  best  acquainted  with  his  habits, 
the  paleness  of  the  young  minister's  cheek  was  accounted 
for  by  his  too  earnest  devotion  to  study,  his  scrupulous 
fulfilment  of  parochial  duty,  and,  more  than  all,  by  the 
fasts  and  vigils  of  which  he  made  a  frequent  practice,  in 
order  to  keep  the  grossness  of  this  earthly  state  from 
clogging  and  obscuring  his  spiritual  lamp.  Some  declared, 
that,  if  Mr.  Dimmesdale  were  really  going  to  die,  it  was 
cause  enough,  that  the  world  was  not  worthy  to  be  any 
longer  trodden  by  his  feet.  He  himself,  on  the  other 


133  THE  SCARLET  LETTEh. 

hand,  with  characteristic  humility,  avowed  his  belief 
that,*  if  Providence  should  see  fit  to  remove  him,  it 
would  be  because  of  his  own  unworthiness  to  perform  its 
numbiest  mission  here  on  earth.  With  all  this  differ 
ence  of  opinion  as  to  the  cause  of  his  decline,  thei> 
could  be  no  question  of  the  fact.  His  form  grew  ema 
eiated  ;  his  voice,  though  still  rich  and  sweet,  had  a  cei- 
tain  melancholy  prophecy  of  decay  in  it ;  he  was  often 
observed,  on  any  slight  alarm  or  other  sudden  accident, 
to  put  his  hand  over  his  heart,  with  first  a  flush  and 
then  a  paleness,  indicative  of  pain. 

Such  was  the  young  clergyman's  condition,  and  so 
imminent  the  prospect  that  his  dawning  light  would  be 
extinguished,  all  untimely,  when  Roger  Chillingworth 
made  his  advent  to  the  town.  His  first  entry  on  the 
scene,  few  people  could  tell  whence,  dropping  down, 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  sky,  or  starting  from  the  nether 
earth.,  had  an  aspect  of  mystery,  which  was  easily 
heightened  to  the  miraculous.  He  was  now  known  to 
be  a  man  of  skill ;  it  was  observed  that  he  gathered 
nerbs,  and  the  blossoms  of  wild-flowers,  and  dug  up 
roots,  and  plucked  off  twigs  from  the  forest-trees,  like 
one  acquainted  with  hidden  virtues  in  what  was  value- 
ess  to  common  eyes.  He  was  heard  to  speak  of  Sir 
Kenehn  Digby,  and  other  famous  men,  —  whose  scien- 
t'fic  attainments  were  esteemed  hardly  less  than  super 
natural, —  as  having  been  his  correspondents  or  asso- 
ciatee  Why,  with  such  rank  in  the  learned  world,  had 
he  come  hither  ?  What  could  he,  whose  sphere  was  in 
great  cities,  be  seeking  in  the  wilderness  ?  In  answer 
to  this  query,  a  rumor  gained  ground,  —  and,  however 
,  war>  entertained  b\r  some  very  sensible  people 


THE    LEECH.  139 

—  that  Heaven  had  wrought  an  absolute  miracle,  by 
transporting  an  eminent  Doctor  of  Physic,  from  a  Ger 
man  university,  bodily  through  the  air,  and  setting  him 
down  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  study  !  Individ 
uals  of  wiser  faith,  indeed,  who  knew  that  Heaven  pro 
motes  its  purposes  without  aiming  at  the  stage-effect  of 
what  is  called  miraculous  interposition,  were  inclined  to 
see  a  providential  hand  in  Roger  Chillingworth's  so 
opportune  arrival. 

This  idea  was  countenanced  by  the  strong  interest 
which  the  physician  ever  manifested  in  the  young  cler 
gynfan  ;  he  attached  himself  to  him  as  a  parishioner, 
and  sought  to  win  a  friendly  regard  and  confidence  from 
his  naturally  reserved  sensibility.  He  expressed  great 
alarm  at  his  pastor's  state  of  health,  but  was  anxious  to 
attempt  the  cure,  and,  if  early  undertaken,  seemed  not 
despondent  of  a  favorable  result.  The  elders,  the  dea 
cons,  the  motherly  dames,  and  the  young  and  fair  maid 
ens,  of  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  flock,  were  alike  importunate 
that  he  should  make  trial  of  the  physician's  frankly 
offered  skill.  Mr.  Dimmesdale  gently  repelled  their 
entreaties. 

"  I  need  no  medicine,"  said  he. 

Bu*  how  could  the  young  minister  say  so,  when,  with 
uvery  successive  Sabbath,  his  cheek  was  paler  and  thin 
ner,  and  his  voice  more  tremulous  than  before,  —  when 
it  had  now  bet.ome  a  constant  habit,  rather  than  a  casual 
gesture,  to  press  his  hand  over  his  heart  ?  Was  he 
weary  of  his  labors  ?  Did  he  wish  to  die  ?  These  ques 
tions  were  solemnly  propounded  to  Mr.  Dimmesdale  by 
f.he  elder  ministers  of  Boston  and  the  deacons  of  his 
shurch,  who,  to  use  their  own  phrase,  "  dealt  with  him  " 


140  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

on  the  sin  of  /ejecting  the  aid  which  Providence  so  man 
ifestly  held  out.  He  listened  in  silence,  and  fina^ 
promised  to  confer  with  the  physician. 

"  Were  it  God's  will,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dim- 
mesdale,"  when,  in  fulfilment  of  this  pledge,  he  requested 
old  Roger  Chillingworth's  professional  advice,  "  I  could 
be  well  content,  that  my  labors,  and  my  sorrows,  and  my 
sins,  and  my  pains,  should  shortly  end  with  me,  and 
what  is  earthly  of  them  be  buried  in  my  grave,  and  the 
bpiritual  go  with  me  to  my  eternal  state,  rather  than 
that  you  should  put  your  skill  to  the  proof  in  my 
behalf."  *\ 

'•«  Ah,"  replied  Roger  Chillingworth,  with  that  quiet 
ness  which,  whether  imposed  or  natural,  marked  all  his 
deportment,  "  it  is  thus  that  a  young  clergyman  is  apt 
to  speak.  Youthful  men,  not  having  taken  a  deep  root, 
give  up  their  hold  of  life  so  easily !  And  saintly  men, 
who  walk  with  God  on  earth,  would  fain  be  away,  to 
walk  with  him  on  the  golden  pavements  of  the  New 
Jerusalem." 

"  Nay,"  rejoined  the  young  minister,  putting  his  hand 
to  his  heart,  with  a  flush  of  pain  flitting  over  his  brow, 
"were  I  worthier  to  walk  the'*e,  I  could  be  better  content 
to  toil  here." 

"Good  men  ever  interpret  themselves  too  meanly," 
said  the  physician. 

In  this  manner,  the  mysterious  old  Roger  Chilling- 
worth  became  the  medical  adviser  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dimmesdale.  As  not  only  the  disease  interested  the 
phySv  Jan,  but  he  was  strongly  moved  to  look  into  the 
character  and  qualities  of  the  patient,  these  two  men,-  so 
differed  in  age,  came  gradually  to  spend  much  time 


THE    LEECH.  141 

together.  For  the  sake  of  the  minister's  health,  aad  fa 
enable  the  leech  to  gather  plants  with  healing  balm  in 
them,  they  took  long  walks  on  the  sea-shore,  or  in  the 
forest  ;  mingling  various  talk  with  the  plash  and  mur 
mur  of  the  waves,  and  the  solemn  wind-anthem  among 
the  tree-tops.  Often,  likewise,  one  wa.c,  the  guest  of  the 
other,  in  his  place  of  study  and  retirement.  There  was 
a  fascination  for  the  minister  in  the  company  of  the  man 
of  science,  in  whom  he  recognized  an  intellectual  culti 
vation  of  no  moderate  depth  or  scope  ;  together  with  a 
range  and  freedom  of  ideas,  that  he  would  have  vainly 
looked  for  among  the  members  of  his  own  profession. 
In  truth,  he  was  startled,  if  not  shocked,  to  find  this 
attribute  in  the  physician.  Mr.  Dimmesdale  was  a  true 
priest,  a  true  religionist,  with  the  reverential  sentiment 
largely  developed,  and  an  order  of  mind  that  impelled 
itself  powerfully  along  the  track  of  a  creed,  and  wore  its 
passage  continually  deeper  with  the  lapse  of  time.  In 
no  state  of  society  would  he  have  been  what  is  called  a 
man  of  liberal  views  ;  it  would  always  be  essential  to 
his  peace  to  feel  the  pressure  of  a  faith  about  him,  sup 
porting,  while  it  confined  him  \vithin  its  iron  framework. 
Not  the  less,  however,  though  with  a  tremulous  enjoy 
ment,  did  he  feel  the  occasional  reliefjrf  looking  art  the 
^universe  through  th^-TtTealum  of  another  kind  ofjptel- 
_Ject  than  those  with  which  he  habituallyheld  converse.  It 
was.  as  iraTwindow  were  thrown  open,  admitting  a  freer 

3.._stiflpfl    pjriri 


life  was  wasting  itself  away,  amid  lamp-light,  or  ob- 
utructed  day-beams,  and  the  musty  .fragrance,  be  it  sen* 
sual  or  moral,  that  exhales  from  books.  But  the  air  was 
too  fresh  apd  *.hill  to  be  long  breathed  with  comfort  Sa 


142  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

the  minister,  and  the  physician  with  him,  withdrew 
again  within  the  limits  of  what  their  church  defined  as 
orthodox. 

Thus  Roger  Chillingworth  scrutinized  his  patient 
carefully,  both  as  he  saw  him  in  his  ordinary  life,  keep 
ing  an  accustomed  pathway  in  the  range  of  thoughts 
familiar  to  him,  and  as  he  appeared  when  thrown  amidst 
other  moral  scenery,  the  novelty  of  which  might  call  out 
something  new  to  the  surface  of  his  character.  He 
deemed  it  essential,  it  would  seem,  to  know  the  man, 
before  attempting  to  do  him  good.  Wherever  there  is  a 
heart  and  an  intellect,  the  diseases  of  the  physical  frame 
c.-e  tinged  with  the  peculiarities  of  these.  In  JL&kw 
Djrnmesdale,  thought  and  iffiflg-inntinn  wprc>  gr>  ^Hm, 
,  that  the  bodily  infirmitv^would 


be     likely    to    have    its    grnnn^l-wnrkthpre^     So 

Cruftmgworth  —  the  man  of  skill,  the  kind  and  friendly 
physician  —  strove  to  go  deep  into  his  patient's  bosom, 
delving  among  his  principles,  prying  into  his  recollec 
tions,  and  probing  everything  with  a  cautious  touch, 
like  a  treasure-seeker  in  a  dark  cavern.  Few  secrets 
can  escape  an  investigator,  who  has  opportunity  and 
license  to  undertake  such  a  quest,  and  skill  to  follow  it 
ap.  A  man  burdened  with  a  secret  should  especially 
avoid  the  intimacy  of  his  physician.  If  the  latter  pos 
sess  native  sagacity,  and  a  nameless  something  more,  — 
et  us  call  it  intuition  ;  if  he  show  no  intrusive  egotism, 
nor  disagreeably  prominent  characteristics  of  his  own  ; 
if  he  have  the  power,  which  must  be  born  with  him,  to 
bring  his  mini  into  such  affinity  with  his  patient's,  that 
this  last  shall  unawares  have  spoken  what  he  imagines 
himself  onJy  to  have  thought;  if  such  revelations  be 


THE    LEECH.  I4il 

received  without  tumult,  and  acknowledged  not  so  often 
Kf  an  uttered  sympathy  as  by  silence,  an  inarticulate 
breath,  and  here  and  there  a  word,  to  indicate  that  all  is 
understood  ;  if  to  these  qualifications  of  a  confidant  be 
joined  the  advantages  afforded  by  his  recognized  charac 
ter  as  a  physician  ;  —  then,  at  some  inevitable  moment, 
will  the  soul  of  the  sufferer  be  dissolved,  and  flow  forth 
in  a  dark,  but  transparent  stream,  bringing  all  its  myste 
ries  into  the  daylight. 

Roger  Chillingworth  possessed v  all,  or  most,  of  the 
attributes  above  enumerated.  Nevertheless,  time  went 
on  ;  a  kind  of  intimacy,  as  we  have  said,  grew  up  between 
these  two  cultivated  minds,  which  had  as  wide  a  field  as 
the  whole  sphere  of  human  thought  and  study,  to  meet 
upon  ;  they  discussed  every  topic  of  ethics  and  religion, 
of  public  affairs,  and  private  character;  they  talked  much, 
on  both  sides,  of  matters  that  seemed  personal  to  them 
selves  ;  and  yet  no  secret,  such  as  the  physician  fancied 
must  exist  there,  ever  stole  out  of  the  minister's  con 
sciousness  into  his  companion's  ear.  The  latter  had  his 
suspicions,  indeed,  that  even  the  nature  of  Mr.  Dimmes- 
dale's  bodily  disease  had  never  fairly  been  revealed  to 
him.  It  was  a  strange  reserve  ! 

After  a  time,  at  a  hint  from  Roger  Chillingworth,  the 
friends  of  Mr.  Dimmesdale  effected  an  arrangement  by 
which  the  two  were  lodged  in  the  same  house ;  so  that 
every  ebb  and  flow  of  the  minister's  life-tide  might  past? 
under  the  eye  of  his  anxious  and  attached  physician. 
There  was  much  joy  throughout  the  town,  when  this 
greatly  desirable  object  was  attained.  It  \vas  htld  to  be 
the  best  possib  e  measure  for  the  young  clergyman's 
welfare :  unless,  indeed,  as  often  urged  by  such  as  feh 


144  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

authorized  to  do  so,  he  had  selected  some  one  of  tho 
many  blooming  damsels,  spiritually  devoted  to  him,  to 
become  his  devoted  wife.  This  latter  step,  however 
there  was  no  present  prospect  that  Arthur  Dimmesdale 
would  be  prevailed  upon  to  take  ;  he  rejected  all  sugges 
tions  of  the  kind,  as  if  priestly  celibacy  were  one  of  his 
articles  of  church-discipline.  Doomed  by  his  own  choice, 
therefore,  as  Mr.  Dimmesdale  so  evidently  was,  to  eat 
his  unsavory  morsel  always  at  another's  board,  and  en 
dure  the  life-long  chill  which  must  be  his  lot  who  seeks 
to  warm  himself  only  at  another's  fireside,  it  truly  seemed 
that  this  sagacious,  experienced,  benevolent  old  physi 
cian,  with  his  concord  of  paternal  and  reverential  love 
for  the  young  pastor,  was  the  very  man,  of  all  mankind, 
to  be  constantly  within  reach  of  his  voice. 

The  new  abode  of  the  two  friends  was  with  a  pious 
widow,  of  good  social  rank,  who  dwelt  in  a  house  cover 
ing  pretty  nearly  the  site  on  which  the  venerable  struc 
ture  of  King's  Chapel  has  since  been  built.  It  had  the 
grave-yard,  originally  Isaac  Johnson's  home-field,  on  one 
side,  and  so  was  well  adapted  to  call  up  serious  reflec 
tions,  suited  to  their  respective  employments,  in  both 
minister  and  man  of  physic.  The  motherly  care  of  the 
good  widow  assigned  to  Mr.  Dimmesdale  a  front  apart 
ment,  with  a  sunnjr  exposure,  and  heavy  window-curtains , 
to  create  a  noontide  shadow,  when  desirable.  The  walla 
were  hung  round  with  tapestry,  said  to  be  from  the 
Gobelin  looms,  and,  at  all  events,  representing  the  Scrip 
tural  story  of  David  and  Bathsheba,  and  Nathan  the 
Prophet,  in  colors  still  unfaded,  but  which  made  the  fair 
woman  of  the  scene  almost  as  grimly  picturesque  as  the 
•»or-denouiK'ing  seer.  Here,  the  pale  clergyman  piled 


THE    LEECH.  145 

np  hib  hbrary,  rich  with  parchment-bound  folios  of  the 
Fathers,  and  the  lore  of  Rabbis,  and  monkish  erudition, 
of  which  the  Protestant  divines,  even  while  they  vilified 
and  decried  that  class  of  writers,  were  yet  constrained 
often  to  avail  themselves.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  old  Roger  Chillmgworth  arranged  his  study  and 
laboratory  ;  not  such  as  a  modern  man  of  science  would 
reckon  even  tolerably  complete,  but  provided  with  a  dis 
tilling  apparatus  and  the  means  of  compounding  drugs 
ind  chemicals,  which  the  practised  alchemist  knew  well 
how  to  turn  to  purpose.  With  such  commodiousness 
of  situation,  these  two  learned  persons  sat  themselves 
down,  eacn  in  his  own  domain,  yet  familiarly  passing 
from  one  apartment  to  the  other,  and  bestowing  a  mu 
tual  and  not  incurious  inspection  into  one  another's 
business. 

And  the  Reverend  Arthur  Dimmesdale's  best  discern- 
rng  friends,  as  we  have  intimated,  very  reasonably  imag 
ined  that  the  hand  of  Providence  had  done  all  this,  for 
the  purpose  —  besought  in  so  many  public,  and  domestic, 
and  secret  prayers  —  of  restoring  the  young  minister  to 
health.     But  —  it  must  now  be  said  —  another  portion 
of  the  community  had  latterly  begun  to  take  its  own  view 
of  the  relation  betwixt  Mr.  Dimmesdale  and  the  myste 
rious  old  physician.     Wheri  aiL-ueiastructed  multitude 
attempts  to  see  with  itsevge,  it  is  exceedingly  apt  to  be 
ftenTrTowever,  it  forms  its  judgment,  as 
mi    thft    imujtinns  jrS_f  its'  great    and 
^  the  conclusions  thus  attained  are  often_so_pi ofomicL 
And  so  uueiriftgras  to  possess— the-eharttetcr  of-toitha— _ 
jupernatu  rally  revealed.     The  people,  in  the  case  of 

Sclrwc  "SpeaTfTcould  justify  its  prejudice  against  Roge* 
10 


146  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

Chilling  vvcj  th  by  no  fact  or  argument  worthy  of  serioit* 
refutation.  There  was  an  aged  handicraftsman,  it  is 
true,  who  had  been  a  citizen  of  London  at  the  period  of 
Sir  Thomas  Overbury's  murder,  now  some  thirty  years 
agone ;  he  testified  to  having  seen  the  physician,  under 
some  other  name,  which  the  narrator  of  the  story  had 
now  forgotten,  in  company  with  Doctor  Forman,  the 
famous  old  conjurer,  who  was  implicated  in  the  affair  of 
Overbury.  Two  or  three  individuals  hinted,  that  the 
man  of  skill,  during  his  Indian  captivity,  had  enlarged 
his  medical  attainments  by  joining  in  the  incantations 
of  the  savage  priests ;  who  were  universally  acknowl 
edged  to  be  powerful  enchanters,  often  performing  seem 
ingly  miraculous  cures  by  their  skill  in  the  black  art. 
A  large  number  —  and  many  of  these  were  persons  of 
such  sober  sense  and  practical  observation  that  theii 
opinions  would  have  been  valuable,  in  other  matters  — 
affirmed  that  Roger  Chillingworth's  aspect  had  under 
gone  a  remarkable  change  while  he  had  dwelt  in  town, 
and  especially  since  his  abode  with  Mr.  Dimmesdalc. 
At  first,  his  expression  had  been  calm,  meditative,  scholar, 
like.  Now,  there  was  something  ugly  and  'evil  in  his 
face,  which  they  had  riot  previously  noticed,  and  whicK 
grew  still  the  more  obvious  to  sight,  the  oftener  the1 
looked  upon  him.  According  to  the  vulgar  idea,  th» 
fire  in  his  laboratory  had  been  brought  from  the  lowe 
regions,  and  was  fed  with  infernal  fuel;  and  so,  a, 
might  be  expected,  his  visage  was  getting  sooty  with  tht 
smoke. 

To  sum  up  the  matter,  it  grew  to  be  a  widely  difFuseJ 
opinion,  that  the  Reverend  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  like 
many  other  personages  of  especial  sanctity,  in  all  apes 


THi.    LEECH.  \'l~ 

of  the  Christian  world,  was  haunted  either  by  Satan 
himself,  or  Satan's  emissary,  in  the  guise  of  old  Roger 
Chillingworth.  This  diabolical  agent  had  the  Divine 
permission,  for  a  season,  to  burrow  into  the  clergyman's 
intimacy,  and  plot  against  his  soul.  No  sensible  man, 
it  was  confessed,  .',ould  doubt  on  which  side  the  victory 
would  turn.  The  people  looked,  with  an  unshaken  hope, 
to  see  the  minister  come  forth  out  of  the  conflict,  trans 
figured  with  the  glory  which  he  would  unquestionably 
win.  Meanwhile,  nevertheless,  it  was  sad  to  think  of 
the  perchance  mortal  agony  through  which  he  must 
struggle  towards  his  triumph. 

Alas !  to  judge  from  the  gloom  and  terror  in  the  depths 
of  the  poor  minister's  eyes,  the  battle  was  a  sore  one  and 
ihe  victory  anything  but  secure 


148  THE    SCARTJET    LETTER. 


X. 

THE  LEECH  AND  HIS  PATIEN1 

OLB  Koger  Chilling-worth,  throughout  life,  had  been 
culm  in  temperament,  kindly,  though  not  of  warm  Lifec- 
tions,  but  ever,  and  in  all  his  relations  with  the  world,  a 
pure  and  upright  man.  He  had  begun  an  investigation, 
as  he  imagined,  with  the  severe  and  equal  integrity  of  a 
judge,  desirous  only  of  truth,  even  as  if  the  question 
involved  no  more  than  the  air-drawn  lines  and  figures 
of  a  geometrical  problem,  instead  of  human  passions,  and 
wrongs  inflicted  on  himself.  But,  as  he  proceeded,  a 
terrible  fascination,  a  kind  of  fierce,  though  still  calm, 
necessity  seized  the  old  man  within  its  gripe,  and  nevei 
set  him  free  again,  until  he  had  done  all  its  bidding. 
He  now  dug  into  the  poor  clergyman's  heart,  like  a 
miner  searching  for  gold;  or,  rather,  like  a  sexton  delv 
ing  into  a  grave,  possibly  in  quest  of  a  jewel  that  had 
been  buried  on  the  dead  man's  bosom,  but  likely  to  find 
nothing  save  mortality  and  corruption.  Alas  for  his  own 
ioul,  if  these  were  what  he  sought ! 

Sometimes,  a  light  glimmered  out  of  the  physician's 
eyes,  burning  blue  and  ominous,  like  the  reflection  of  a 
turnnce,  or,  let  us  say,  like  one  of  those  gleams  of  ghastly 
fire  that  darted  from  Bunyan's  awful  door- way  in  the 
hill-side,  and  quivered  on  the  pilgrim's  face.  The  soil 
where  this  dark  miner  was  working  had  perchance  shown 
indications  that  encouraged  him. 

"This  man,''  said  he,  at  one  such  moment,  to  him 


YHE    LEECH   AND   HIS    PATIBNT.  1  19 

self,  •  pOi-e  as  they  deem  him, — all  spiritual  as  he  seems, 
—  hath  inherited  a  strong  animal  nature  from  his  fathei 
or  his  mother.  Let  us  dig  a  little  further  in  the  direc 
tion  of  this  vein  ! " 

Then,  after  long  search -into  the  minister's  dim  inte 
rior,  and  turning  over  nwny  precious  materials,  in  the 
shape  of  high  aspirations  for  the  welfare  of  his  race, 
warm  love  of  souls,  pure  sentiments,  natural  piety, 
strengthened  by  thought  and  study,  and  illuminated  by 
revelation,  —  all  of  which  invaluable  gold  was  perhaps 
10  better  than  rubbish  to  the  seeker,  —  he  would  turn 
back,  discouraged,  and  begin  his  quest  towards  another 
point.  He  groped  along  as  stealthily,  with  as  cautious 
a  tread,  and  as  wary  an  outlook,  as  a  thief  entering  a 
chamber  where  a  man  lies  only  half  asleep,  —  or,  it  may 
be,  broad  awake,  —  with  purpose  to  steal  the  very  treas 
ure  which  this  man  guards  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.  hi 
spite  of  his  premeditated  carefulness,  the  floor  would 
now  and  then  creak;  his  garments  would  rustle;  the 
shadow  of  his  presence,  in  a  forbidden  proximity,  would 
be  thrown  across  his  victim.  In  other  words,  Mr.  Dim- 
mesdale,  whose  sensibility  of  nerve  often  produced  the 
effect  of  spiritual  intuition,  would  become  vaguely  aware 
that  something  inimical  to  his  peace  had  thrust  itself 
into  relation  with  him.  But  old  Roger  Chillingworth, 
too,  had  perceptions  that  were  almost  intuitive;  and 
when  the  minister  threw  his  startled  eyes  towards  him, 
there  the  physician  sat;  his  kind,  watchful,  sympathiz 
ing,  but  never  intrusive  friend. 

Yet  Mr,  Dimmesdale  would  perhaps  have  seen  this 
individual's  character  more  perfectly,  if  a  certain  mor 
bidness,  to  which  sick  hearts  are  1'able,  had  not  ren 


150  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

dered  hin.  suspicious  of  all  mankind.  Trusting  no  man 
as  his  friend,  he  could  not  recognize  his  enemy  when 
the  latter  actually  appeared.  He  therefore  still  kept  up 
a  familiar  intercourse  \\ith  him,  daily  receiving  the  oh1 
physician  in  his  study ;  or  visiting  the  laboratory,  and 
for  recreation's  sake,  watching  the  processes  by  which 
weeds  were  converted  into  drugs  of  potency. 

One  day,  leaning  his  forehead  on  his  hand,  and  his 
elbow  on  the  sill  of  the  open  window,  that  looked 
towards  the  grave-yard,  he  talked  with  Roger  Chilling- 
worth,  while  the  old  man  was  examining  a  bundle  of 
unsightly  plants. 

"Where,"  asked  he,  with  a  look  askance  at  them, — 
for  it  was  the  clergyman's  peculiarity  that  he  seldom, 
now-a-days,  looked  straightforth  at  any  object,  whether 
human  or  inanimate  — "where,  my  kind  doctor,  did 
you  gather  those  herbs,  with  such  a  dark,  flabby  leaf?" 

"  Even  in  the  grave-yard  here  at  hand,"  answered 
the  physician,  continuing  his  employment.  "  They  are 
new  to  me.  I  found  them  growing  on  a  grave,  which 
bore  no  tomb-stone,  nor  other  memorial  of  the  dead  man, 
save  these  ugly  weeds,  that  have  taken  upon  themselves 
to  keep  him  in  remembrance.  They  grew  out  of  his 
heart,  and  typify,  it  may  be,  some  hideous  secret  that 
was  buried  with  him,  and  which  he  had  done  better  to 
confess  during  his  lifetime." 

"  Perchance,"  said  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  "  he  earnestly 
desired  it,  but  could  not." 

"And  wherefore?"  rejoined  the  physician.  "Where* 
fore  not ;  since  all  the  powers  of  nature  call  so  earnestly 
for  the  confession  of  sin,  that  these  black  weeds  have 


THL    LEECH  .^ND    HIS    PATIENT.  151 

ap  out  of  a  buried  heart,  to  make  manifest  an 
unspoken  crime  ?  " 

"  That,  good  Sir,  is  but  a  fantasy  of  yours,"  replied 
the  mil  .liter.  "  There  can  be,  if  I  forebode  aright,  no 
power,  short  of  the  Divine  mercy,  to  disclose,  whether 
by  uttered  words,  or  by  type  or  emblem,  the  secrets  that 
may  be  buried  with  a  human  heart.  The  heart,  making 
itself  guilty  of  -such  secrets,  must  perforce  hold  them, 
until  the  day  when  all  hidden  things  shall  be  revealed. 
Nor  have  I  so  read  or  interpreted  Holy  Writ,  as  to 
understand  that  the  disclosure  of  numan  thoughts  and 
deeds,  then  to  be  made,  is  intended  as  a  part  of  the  retri 
bution.  That,  surely,  were  a  shallow  view  of  it.  No ; 
these  revelations,  unless  I  greatly  err,  are  meant  merely 
to  promote  the  intellectual  satisfaction  of  all  intelligent 
beings,  who  will  stand  waiting,  on  tiiat  day,  to  see  the 
dark  problem  of  this  life  made  plain.  A  knowledge  of 
men's  hearts  will  be  needful  to  the  completest  solution 
of  that  problem.  And  I  conceive,  moreover,  that  the 
hearts  holding  such  miserable  secrets  as  you  speak  of 
will  yield  them  up,  at  that  last  day,  not  with  reluctance, 
but  with  a  joy  unutterable." 

"Then  why  not  reveal  them  here?"  asked  Roger 
Chillingworth,  glancing  quietly  aside  at  the  minister. 
"  Why  should  not  the  guilty  ones  sooner  avai1  them 
selves  of  this  unutterable  solace  ? " 

u  They  mostly  do,"  said  the  clergyman,  griping  hard 
at  his  breast,  as  if  afflicted  with  an  importunate  throb  of 
pain.  "Many,  many  a  poor  soul  hath  given  its  confi 
dence  to  me,  not  only  on  the  death-bed,  but  while  strong 
in  life,  and  fair  in  reputation.  And  ever,  after  such  an 
outpouring,  0,  what  a  relief  have  I  witnessed  in  thos« 


152  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

sinful  brethren!  even  as  in  one  who  at  last  draws  fror 
air,  after  long  stifling-  with  his  own  polluted  breath. 
How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  Why  should  a  wretched 
man,  guilty,  we  will  say,  of  murder,  prefer  to  keep 
the  dead  corpse  buried  in  his  own  heart,  rather  than 
fling  it  forth  at  once,  and  let  the  universe  take  care 
of  it!" 

"  Yet  some  men  bury  their  secrets  thus."  observed  the 
calm  physician. 

"  True ;  there  are  such  men."  answered  Mr.  Dimmes- 
dale.  "  But,  not  to  suggest  more  obvious  reasons,  it  may 
be  that  they  are  kept  silent  by  the  very  constitution 
of  their  nature.  Or,  —  can  we  not  suppose  it? — guilty 
as  they  may  be,  retaining,  nevertheless,  a  zeal  for  God's 
glory  and  man's  welfare,  they  shrink  from  displaying 
themselves  black  and  filthy  in  the  view  of  men ;  be 
cause,  thenceforward,  no  good  can  be  achieved  by  them  ; 
no  evil  of  the  past  be  redeemed  by  better  service.  So, 
to  their  own  unutterable  torment,  they  go  about  among 
their  fellow-creatures,  looking  pure  as  new-fallen  snow 
while  their  hearts  are  all  speckled  and  spotted  witi 
iniquity  of  which  they  cannot  rid  themselves." 

•'  These  men  deceive  themselves,"  said  Roger  Chil 
lingworth,  with  somewhat  more  emphasis  than  usual 
and  making  a  slight  gesture  with  his  forefinger. 
"They  fear  to  take  up  the  shame  that  rightfully  belongs 
to  them.  Their  love  for  man,  their  zeal  for  God's  ser 
vice, —  these  holy  impulses  may  or  may  not  coexist  in 
their  hearts  with  the  evil  inmates  to  which  their  guilt 
has  unbarred  the  door,  and  which  must  needs  propagate 
ft  hrllish  breed  within  them.  But,  if  they  seek  to  glo 
rify  God,  let  th*m  not  lift  heavenward  their  unclean 


THE    LEECH   AND    HIS    PATIENT.  153 

li  :aey  would  serve  their  fellow-men,  let  them 
do  it  ly  making  manifest  the  power  and  reality  of 
conscience,  in  constraining  them  to  penitential  self- 
abasement  !  "Wouldst  thou  have  me  to  believe,  O  wise 
and  pious  friend,  that  a  false  show  can  be  better  —  can 
be  more  for  God's  glory,  or  man's  welfare  —  than 
God's  own  truth  ?  Trust  me,  such  men  deceive  them 
selves!" 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  the  young  clergyman,  indiffer 
ently  as  waiving  a  discussion  that  he  considered  irrele 
vant  or  unseasonable.  He  had  a  ready  faculty,  indeed, 
of  escaping  from  any  topic  that  agitated  his  too  sensitive 
and  nervous  temperament.  —  "  But,  now,  I  would  ask 
of  my  well-skilled  physician,  whether,  in  good  scoth,  he 
deems  me  to  have  profited  by  his  kindly  care  of  this 
weak  frame  of  mine  ?" 

Before  Roger  Chillingworth  could  answer,  they  heard 
the  clear,  wild  laughter  of  a  young  child's  voice,  pro 
ceeding  from  the  adjacent  burial-grdund.  Looking 
instinctively  from  the  open  window,  —  for  it  was  sum 
mer-time, —  the  minister  beheld  Hester  Prynne  and 
little  Pearl  passing  along  the  foot-path  that  traversed  the 
enclosure.  Pearl  looked  as  beautiful  as  the  day,  bat 
was  in  one  of  those  moods  of  perverse  merriment 
which,  whenever  they  occurred,  seemed  to  remove  her 
entirely  out  of  tha  sphere  of  sympathy  or  human  contact. 
She  now  skipped  irreverently  from  one  grave  to  another ; 
until,  coming  to  the  broad,  flat,  armorial  tomb-stone  of  a 
departed  worthy,  —  perhaps  of  Isaac  Johnson  himself, 
— she  began  to  dance  upon  it.  In  reply  to  her  mother's 
command  and  entreaty  that  she  would  behave  more 
decv.-^ouslj  little  Pearl  paused  to  gather  the  pricldy 


154  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

burrs  from  a  tall  burdock  which  grew  beside  the  toinfc 
Taking  a  handful  of  these,  she  arranged  them  along  the 
lines  of  the  scarlet  letter  that  decorated  the  maternal 
bosom,  to  which  the  burrs,  as  their  nature  was,  tena- 
riously  adhered.  Hester  did  not  pluck  them  off. 

Roger  Chillingworth  had  by  this  time  approached  the 
window,  and  smiled  grimly  down. 

"  There  is  no  law,  nor  reverence  for  authority,  no 
regard  for  human  ordinances  or  opinions,  right  or 
wrong,  mixed  up  with  that  child's  composition,"  re 
marked  he,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  his  companion 
"  I  saw  her,  the  other  day,  bespatter  the  Governor  him 
self  with  water,  at  the  cattle-trough  in  Spring-lane. 
What,  in  Heaven's  name,  is  she  ?  Is  the  imp  altogether 
evil  ?  Hath  she  affections  ?  Hath  she  any  discoveja- 
ble  principle  of  being  ? " 

"  None,  —  save  the  freedom  of  a  broken  law,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  in  a  quiet  way,  as  if  he  had 
oeen  discussing' the  point  within  himself.  "Whether 
capable  of  good,  I  know  not." 

The  child  probably  overheard  their  voices ;  for,  look 
ing  up  to  the  window,  with  a  bright,  but  naughty  smile 
of  mirth  and  intelligence,  she  threw  one  of  the  prickly 
burrs  at  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale.  The  sensitive 
clergyn  an  shrunk,  with  nervous  dread,  from  the  light 
missile.  Detecting  his  emotion,  Pearl  clapped  her  little 
hands,  in  the  most  extravagant  ecstacy.  Hester  Prynne, 
likewise,  had  involuntarily  looked  up,  and  all  these 
four  persons,  old  and  young,  regarded  one  another  in 
silence,  till  the  child  laughed  aloud,  and  shouted,— 

Come   away,  mother !      Come   away,  or   yonder  old 
rflack  Man  will  catch  you !     He  hath  got  hold  of  the 


THE    LEECH    AND    HIS    PATIENT.  155 

minister  already.     Come  away,  mother,  or  he  will  catch 
you  !     Bui  he  cannot  catch  little  Pearl  ! 

So  she  drew  her  mother  away,  skipping,  dancing, 
and  frisking  fantastically,  among  the  hillocks  of  thn 
dead  people,  like  a  creature  that  had  nothing  in  com 
mon  with  a  bygone  and  buried  generation,  nor  owned 
herself  akin  to  it.  Jt  was_jis^j£^sfaeHiat:hbeea  mndp. 
f  new  ^emgntsT'and  musT~p6^^orce  be  per 


mitted  to  live  her  own  life,  and  be-aJa^v_ 

without  her  eccentricities  being  reckoned  tojierjbj  a 

crime. 

"There  goes  a  woman,"  resumed  Roger  Chilling. 
worth,  after  a  pause,  "  who,  be  her  demerits  what  they 
may,  hath  none  of  that  mystery  of  hidden  sin  fulness 
which  you  deem  so  grievous  to  be  borne.  Is  Hester 
Prynne  the  less  miserable,  think  you,  for  that  scarlet 
letter  on  her  breast  ?  " 

"  I  do  verily  believe  it,"  answered  the  clergyman. 
"  Nevertheless,  I  cannot  answer  for  her.  There  was 
a  look  of  pain  in  her  face,  which  I  would  gladly  have 
been  spared  the  sight  of.  But  still,  me  thinks,  it  must 
needs  be  better  for  the  sufferer  to  be  free  to  show  h  is 
pain,  as  this  poor  woman  Hester  is,  than  to  cover  it  al/ 
up  in  his  heart." 

There  was  another  pause  ;  and  the  physician  began 
anew  to  examine  and  arrange  the  plants  which  he  had 
gathered. 

"  You  inquired  of  me,  a  little  time  agone,"  said  h;;, 
aV  length,  "  my  judgment  as  touching  your  health." 

u  I  did  "  answered  the  clergyman,  and  would  gladlj 
learn  it.  •'  Speak  frankly,  I  pray  you,  be  it  for  life  o 
ieath  " 


156  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

"  Freely,  then,  and  plainly,"  said  the  ph*f&£ian  still 
busy  with  his  plants,  but  keeping  a  wary  eye  on  JV1  r 
Dimmest] ale,  "  the  disorder  is  a  strange  one ;  not  so 
much  in  itself,  nor  as  outwardly  manifested,  —  in  so 
far,  at  least,  as  the  symptoms  have  been  laid  open  to 
my  observation.  Looking  daily  at  you,  my  good  Sir, 
and  watching  the  tokens  of  your  aspect,  now  for  months 
gone  by,  1  should  deem  you  a  man  sore  sick,  it  may  be, 
yet  not  so  sick  but  that  an  instructed  and  watchful  phy 
sician  might  well  hope  to  cure  you.  But  —  I  know  not 
vhat  to  say  —  the  disease  is  what  I  seem  to  know,  yet 
know  it  not." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,  learned  Sir,"  said  the  pale 
minister,  glancing  aside  out  of  the  window. 

44  Then,  to  speak  more  plainly,"  continued  the  phy 
sician,  "and  I  crave  pardon,  Sir, — should  it  seem  to 
require  pardon,  —  for  this  needful  plainness  of  my  speech. 
Let  me  ask,  —  as  your  friend,  —  as  one  having  charge, 
under  Providence,  of  your  life  and  physical  well-being, 
—  hath  all  the  operation  of  this  disorder  been  fairly  laid 
open  and  recounted  to  me  ? " 

"  Cow  can  you  question  it?"  asked  the  minister. 
"  Suiely,  it  were  child's  play,  to  call  in  a  physician,  ami 
then  hide  the  sore !  " 

"  "Sou  would  tell  me,  then,  that  I  know  all  ? "  said 
Roger  Chillingworth,  deliberately,  and  fixing  an  eye. 
bright  with  intense  and  concentrated  intelligence,  on 
the  minister's  face.  "Be  it  s:,!  But,  again!  He  to 
whom-  only  the  outward  and  physical  evil  is  laid  open, 
knoweth,  oftentimes,  but  half  the  evil  which  he  is  called 
up-m  to  cure.  A  bodily  disease,  which  we  look  upon 
t^  wluJp  nui  entire  within  itself,  may,  after  all  be  bul 


THE    LEECH    AND    HIS    FAT1EMT.  15*7 

A  symptom  of  some  ailment  in  the  spiritual  part  YVai 
pardon,  once  again,  good  Sir,  if  my  speech  give  the 
shadow  of  offence.  Jfflii,  Sir,  of  a] I  men  whom  I  have 
known,  are  he  _whose_bqdy Js  the  closest  conjoined,  and 
imbued,  and  identified,  so  10  speak,  with  the  spirit 
whereof  it  is  the  instrument." 

"  Then  I  need  ask  no  further,"  said  the  clergyman, 
somewhat  hastily  rising  from  his  chair.  "  You  deal  not, 
I  take  it,  in  medicine  for  the  soul ! " 

"  Thus,  a  sickness,"  continued  Eoger  Chillingworth, 
going  on,  in  an  unaltered  tone,  without  heeding  the 
interruption,  —  but  standing  up,  and  confronting  the 
emaciated  and  white-cheeked  minister,  with  his  low, 
dark,  and  misshapen  figure,  —  "a  sickness,  a  sore  place, 
if  we  may  so  call  it,  in  your  spirit,  hath  immediately 
its  appropriate  manifestation  in  your  bodily  frame. 
Would  you,  therefore,  that  your  physician  heal  the 
bodily  evil  ?  How  may  this  be,  unless  you  first  lay 
open  to  him  the  wound  or  trouble  in  your  soul  ?  " 

"  No  !  —  not  to  thee  !  —  not  to  an  earthly  physician  ! " 
cried  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  passionately,  and  turning  his 
eyes,  full  and  bright,  and  with  a  kind  of  fierceness,  on 
old  Koger  Chillingworth.  "  Not  to  thee !  But,  if  it  be 
the  soul's  disease,  then  do  I  commit  myself  to  the  one 
Physician  of  the  soul !  He,  if  it  stand  with  his  good 
pleasure,  can  cure ;  or  he  can  kill !  Let  him  do  with 
me  as,  in  his  justice  and  wisdom,  he  shall  see  good. 
But  who  art  thou,  that  meddlest  in  this  matter  ?  —  that 
dares  thrust  himself  between  the  sufferer  and  his  God  ? " 

With  a  frantic  gesture,  he  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

"  It  is  as  well  to  have  made  this  step,"  said  E 
ChiJlingworth  to  him-?elf,  looking  after  the  minister 


168  THE    SLARl^T    LETTER. 


a  grave  smile.  "  There  is  nothing  lost.  We  shall  be 
friends  again  anon.  But  see,  now,  how  passion  takes 
hold  upon  this  man,  and  hurrieth  him  out  of  himself! 
As  with  one  passion,  so  with  another!  He  hath  done 
a  wild  thing  ere  now,  this  pious  Master  Dimmesdale, 
in  the  hot  passion  of  his  heart  !  " 

It  proved  not  difficult  to  reestablish  the  intimacy  of 
the  two  companions,  on  the  same  footing  arid  in  the 
same  degree  a?  heretofore.  The  young  clergyman, 
after  a  few  hours  of  privacy,  was  sensible  that  the  dis 
order  of  his  nerves  had  hurried  him  into  an  unseemly 
outbreak  of  temper,  which  there  had  been  nothing  in 
the  physician's  words  to  excuse  or  palliate.  He  mar 
velled,  indeed,  at  the  violence  with  which  he  had  thrust 
iKir.k  the  kind  old  man,  when  merely  proffering  the 
advice  which  it  was  his  duty  to  bestow,  and  which  tho 
minister  himself  had  expressly  sought.  With  these  re 
morseful  feelings,  he  lost  no  time  in  making  th^  amplest 
apologies,  and  besought  his  friend  still  to  continue  tht 
care,  which,  if  not  successful  in  restoring  him  to  health  , 
had,  in  all  probability,  been  the  means  of  prolonging  hi& 
feeble  existence  to  that  hour.  Roger  Chilling-worth 
readily  assented,  and  went  on  with  his  medical  super 
vision  of  the  minister;  doing  his  best  for  him,  in  all 
good  faith,  but  always  quitting  the  patient's  apartment. 
at  the  close  of  a  professional  interview,  with  a  mypteri- 
ous  and  puzzled  smile  upon  his  lips.  This  expression 
vvas  invisible  in  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  presence,  but  grew 
strongly  evident  as  the  physician  crossed  the  thresh 
old. 

"A  rare  case!"  he  muttered.  "  I  must  needs  look 
neeper  into  it.  A  strange  sympathy  betwixt  soul  anJ 


THE    LEECH    AND   HIS    PATIENT.  169 

body!  Were  it  only  for  the  art's  sake,  I  nrisi  search 
this  matter  to  the  bottom  !  " 

It  came  to  pass,  not  long  after  the  scene  ibove  re 
corded,  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  at  noon 
day,  and  entirely  unawares,  fell  into  a  deep,  deep  sium- 
ber,  sitting  in  his  chair,  with  a  large  black-letter  volume 
open  before  him  on  the  table.  It  must  have  been  a 
work  of  vast  ability  in  the  somniferous  school  of  litera 
ture.  The  profound  depth  of  the  minister's  repose  was 
the  more  remarkable,  inasmuch  as  he  was  one  of  those 
persons  whose  sleep,  ordinarily,  is  as  light,  as  fitful,  and 
as  easily  scared  away,  as  a  small  bird  hopping  on  a  twig. 
To  such  an  unwonted  remoteness,  however,  had  his 
spirit  now  withdrawn  into  itself,  that  he  stiired  pot  in 
his  chair,  when  old  Roger  Chillingworth,  without  any 
extraordinary  precaution,  came  into  the  room.  The  phy 
sician  advanced  directly  in  front  of  his  patient,  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  bosom,  and  thrust  aside  the  vestment, 
that,  hitherto,  had  always  covered  it  even  from  the  pro 
fessional  eye. 

Then,  indeed,  Mr.  Dimmesdale  shuddered,  and  slight 
ly  stirred. 

After  a  brief  pause,  the  physician  turned  away. 

But,  with  what  a  wild  look  of  wonder,  joy,  and 
horror  !  With  what  a  ghastly  rapture,  a.s  it  were,  too 
mighty  to  be  expressed  only  by  the  eye  and  features, 
and  therefore  bursting  forth  through  the  whole  ugliness 
of  his  figure,  and  making  itself  even  riotously  manifest 
by  the  extravagant  gestures  with  which  he  threw  up  his 
arms  towards  the  ceiling,  and  stamped  his  foot  upon 
the  floor  !  Had  a..nian.^sppn  nld 


•M  thnt  rn^vn^nt  of  hi^  ecstacy,  he  would  have  had  rw 


160  THE    SCAKLET    uETTEK. 

need  to  ask  how  Satan  comports  himself,  when  a  pr& 
clous  human  soul  is  lost  to  heaven,  and  won  into  his 
kingdom. 

But  what  distinguished  the  physician's  ecstacy  from 
Satan's  was  the  trait  of  wonder  in  it ! 


THE    INTERIOR    OF    A    HEART 


XI. 

THE  INTERIOR  OF  A  HEART. 

AFTER  the  incident  last  described,  the  intercourse 
i^etween  the  clergyman  and  the  physician,  though  ex« 
ternally  the  same,  was  really  of  another  character  than 
it  had  previously  been.  The  intellect  of  Roger  Chil- 
lingworth  had  now  a  sufficiently  plain  path  before  it. 
It  was  not,  indeed,  precisely  that  which  he  had  laid  out 
for  himself  to  tread.  Calm,  gentle,  passionless,  as  be 
appeared,  there  was  yet,  we  fear,  a  quiet  depth  of  malice, 
hitherto  latent,  but  active  now,  in  this  unfortunate  old 
man,  which  led  him  to  imagine  a  more  intimate  revenge 
than  any  mortal  had  ever  wreaked  upon  an  enemy.  To 
make  himself  the  one  trusted  friend,  to  whom  should  be 
confided  all  the  fear,  the  remorse,  the  agony,  the  ineffect 
ual  repentance,  the  backward  rush  of  sinful  thoughts, 
expelled  in  vain  !  All  that  guilty  sorrow,  hidden  from 
the  world,  whose  great  heart  would  have  pitied  and  for 
given,  to  be  revealed  to  him,  the  Pitiless,  to  him,  the 
Unforgiving  !  All  that  dark  treasure  to  be  lavished  on 
the  very  man,  to  whom  nothing- else  could  so  adequately 
nay  the  debt  of  vengeance  ! 

The  clergyman's  shy  and  sensitive  reserve  had  balked 
this  scheme.  Roger  Chillingworth,  however,  was  in 
clined  to  be  hardly,  if  at  all,  less  satisfied  with  the  aspect 
of  affairs,  which  Providence  —  using  the  avenger  and 
liis  victim  for  its  own  purposes,  and,  perchance,  pardon- 
ing,  where  it  seemed  most  to  punish  —  had  substituted 
11 


THE    SCARLET    LKTTEf.. 

for  his  black  devices.  A  revelation,  he  could  almost  say 
had  been  granted  to  him.  It  mattered  little,  for  his  cb- 
ject,  whether  celestial,  or  from  what  other  region.  By 
its  aid,  in  all  the  subsequent  relations  betwixt  him  and 
Mr.  Dimmesdale,  not  merely  the  external  presence,  lut 
the  very  inmost  soul,  of  the  latter,  seemed  to  be  brought 
out  before  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  see  arid  comprehend 
its  every  movement.  He  became,  thenceforth,  not  a 
spectator  only,  but  a  chief  actor,  in  the  poor  minister's 
interior  world.  He  could  play  upon  him  as  he  chose. 
Would  he  arouse  him  with  a  throb  of  agony  ?  The  vic 
tim  was  forever  on  the  rack ;  it  needed  only  to  know  the 
spring  that  controlled  the  engine  ;  —  and  the  physician 
knew  it  well.!  Would  he  startle  him  with  sudden  fear? 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  magician's  wand,  uprose  a  grisly 
phantom,  —  uprose  a  thousand  phantoms,  —  in  many 
shapes,  of  death,  or  more  awful  shame,  all  nocking  round 
about  the  clergyman,  and  pointing  with  their  fingers  at 
his  breast ! 

All  this  was  accomplished  with  a  subtlety  so  perfect, 
that  the  minister,  though  he  had  constantly  a  dim  per 
ception  of  some  evil  influence  watching  over  him,  could 
never  gain  a  knowledge  of  its  actual  nature.  True,  he 
looked  doubtfully,  fearfully,  —  even,  at  times,  with  hor 
ror  and  tr.3  bitterness  of  hatred, — at  the  deformed  figure 
of  the  old  physician.  His  gestures,  his  gait,  his  grizzled 
beard,  his  slightest  and  most  indifferent  acts,  the  very 
fashion  of  his  garments,  were  odious  in  the  clergyman's 
sight ;  a  token  implicitly  to  be  relied  on,  of  a  deeper  an 
tipathy  in  the  breast  of  the  latter  than  he  was  willing  to 
acknowledge  to  himself.  For,  as  it  was  impossible  to 
•;  ign  a  reason  for  such  distrust  and  abhorrence,  so  Mr 


THE    INTERIOR    OF    A    HEART.  163 

Dimniesdale,  conscious  that  the  poison  of  one  morbid 
spot  was  infecting  his  heart's  entire  substance,  attributed 
all  his  presentiments  to  no  other  cause.  He  took  him 
self  to  task  for  his  bad  s-"rnpathies  in  reference  to  Roger 
Chillingworth,  disregarded  -the  lesson  that  he  should 
have  drawn  from  them,  and  did  his  best  to  root  them  out. 
Unable  to  accomplish  this,  he  nevertheless,  as  a  matter 
of  principle,  continued  his  habits  of  social  familiarity 
with  the  old  man,  and  thus  gave  him  constant  opportu 
nities  for  perfecting  the  purpose  to  which  —  poor,  for 
lorn  creature  that  he  was,  and  more  wretched  than  his 
victim  —  the  avenger  had  devoted  himself. 

While  thus  suffering  under  bodily  disease,  and  gnawed 
and  tortured  by  some  black  trouble  of  the  -soul,  and  given 
over  to  the  machinations  of  his  deadliest  enemy,  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  had  achieved  a  brilliant  pop 
ularity  in  his  sacred  office.  He  won  it,  indeed,  in  great 
part,  by  his  sorrows.  His  intellectual  gifts,  his  moral 
perceptions,  his  power  of  experiencing  and  communi 
cating  emotion,  were  kept  in  a  state  of  preternatural  activ 
ity  by  the  prick  and  anguish  of  his  daily  life.  His  fame, 
though  still  on  its  upward  slope,  already  overshadowed 
the  soberer  reputations  of  his  fellow-clergymen,  eminent 
as  several  of  them  were.  *  There  were  scholars  among 
them,  who  had  spent  more  years  in  acquiring  abstruse 
lore,  connected  with  the  divine  profession,  than  Mr.  Dim 
mesdale  had  lived  ;  and  who  might  well,  therefore,  be 
more  profoundly  versed  in  such  solid  and  valuable  at 
tainments  than  their  youthful  brother.  There  were  ~*en, 
too,  of  a  sturdier  texture  of  mind  than  his,  and  endowed 
with  a  tar  greater  share  of  shrewd,  hard,  iron,  or  granite 
inderstandiiig ;  which,  duly  n  ;'igied  with  a  fair  propw 


Ib  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

tion  of  doctrinal  ingredient,  constitutes  a  highly  respect 
able,  efficacious,  and  unamiable  variety  of  the  clerical 
species.  There  were  others,  again,  true  saintly  fathers, 
whose  faculties  had  been  elaborated  by  weary  toil  among 
their  books,  and  by  patient  thought,  and  etherealized, 
moreover,  by  spiritual  communications  with  the  bettei 
\\-orld,  into  which  their  purity  of  life  had  almost  intio- 
duced  these  holy  personages,  with  their  garments  of  mor 
tality  still  clinging  to  them.  All  that  they  lacked  was 
the  gift  that  Ascended  upon  the  chosen  disciples  at  Pen 
tecost,  in  tongues  of  flame  ;  symbolizing,  it  would  seem, 
not  the  power  of  speech  in  foreign  and  unknown  lan 
guages,  but  that  of  addressing  the  whole  human  brother 
hood  in  the  heart's  native  language.  These  fathers,  oth 
erwise  so  apostolic,  lacked  Heaven's  last  and  rarest 
attestation  of  their  office,  the  Tongue  of  Flame.  They 
would  have  vainly  sought — had  they  ever  dreamed  of 
seeking — to  express  the  highest  truths  through  the  hum 
blest  medium  of  familiar  words  and  images.  Their 
voices  came  down,  afar  and  indistinctly,  from  the  upper 
heights  where  they  habitually  dwelt. 

Not  improbably,  it  was  to  this  latter  class  of  men  that 
Mr.  Dimrnesdale,  by  many  of  his  traits  of  character, 
naturally  belonged.  To  the  high  mountain-peaks  of 
faith  and  sanctity  he  would  have  climbed,  had  not  the 
tendency  been  thwarted  by  the  burden,  whatever  it 
might  be,  of  crime  or  anguish,  beneath  which  it  was  his 
doom  to  totter.  It  kept  him  down,  on  a  level  with  the 
lowest ;  him,  the  man  of  ethereal  attributes,  whose 
voice  the  angels  might  else  have  listened  to  and  an- 
swered  !  But  this  very  burden  it  was,  that  gave  him 
sympathies  so  intimate  with  the  sinful  brotherhood  of 


THE    INTERIOR    OF    A    HEART. 

mankind;  so  that  his  heart  vibrated  in  unison 
theirs,  and  received  their  pain  into  itself,  and  sent  its 
own  throb  of  pain  through  a  thousand  other  hearts,  in 
gushes  of  sad,  persuasive  eloquence.  Oftenest  persua 
sive,  but  sometimes  terrible !  The  people  knew  not  the 
power  that  moved  them  thus.  They  deemed  the  young 
clergyman  a  miracle  of  holiness.  They  fancied  him  the 
mouth-piece  of  Heaven's  messages  of  wisdom,  and  re- 
bujve,  and  love.  In  their  eyes,  the  very  ground  on  which 
he  trod  was  sanctified.  The  virgins  of  his  church  grew 
pale  around  him,  victims  of  a  passion  so  imbued  with 
religious  sentiment  that  they  imagined  it  to  be  all  re 
ligion,  and  brought  it  openly,  in  their  white  besoms,  as 
their  most  acceptable  sacrifice  before  the  altar.  The 
aged  members  of  his  flock,  beholding  Mr.  Dimmesdale's 
frame  so  feeble,  while  they  were  themselves  so  rugged  in 
their  infirmity,  believed  that  he  would  go  heavenward 
before  them,  and  enjoined  it  upon  their  children,  that 
their  old  bones  should  be  buried  close  to  their  young  pas 
tor's  holy  grave.  And,  all  this  time,  perchance,  when 
poor  Mr.  Dimmesdale  was  thinking  of  his  grave,  he 
questioned  with  himself  whether  the  grass  would  ever 
grow  on  it,  because  an  accursed  thing  must  there  be 
buried ! 

It  is  inconceivable,  the  agony  with  which  this  public 
veneration  tortured  him  !  It  was  his  genuine  impulse  to 
sidore  the  truth,  and  to  reckon  all  things  shadow-like, 
and  utterly  devoid  of  weight  or  value,  that  had  not  its 
divine  essehcr  as  the  life  within  their  life.  Then,  what 
vvas  he  ?  —  a  substance  ?  —  or  the  dimmest  of  all  shad 
ows  ?  He  longed  to  speak  out,  from  hi&  own  pulpit,  at 
the  full  height  of  his  voice,  and  tell  the  people  what  he 


106  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

was.  "  I,  whom  you  behold  in  these  black  garments  of 
ihe  priesthood,  —  I,  who  ascend  the  sacred  desk,  and 
turn  my  pale  face  heavenward,  taking  upon  myself  to 
hold  communion,  in  your  behalf,  with  the  Most  High 
Omniscience,  —  I,  in  whose  daily  life  you  discern  the 
sanctity  of  Enoch,  —  I,  whose  footsteps,  as  you  suppose, 
leave  a  gleam  along  my  earthly  track,  whereby  the  pil 
grims  that  shall  come  after  me  may  be  guided  to  the 
regions  of  the  blest,  —  I,  who  have  laid  the  hand  of  bap 
tism  upon  your  children,  —  I,  who  have  breathed  the 
parting  prayer  over  your  dying  friends,  to  whom  the 
Amen  sounded  faintly  from  a  world  which  they  Lad 
quitted,  —  I,  your  pastor,  whom  you  so  reverence  und 
trust,  am  utterly  a  pollution  and  a  lie  !  " 

More  than  once,  Mr.  Dimmesdale  had  gone  into  vae 
pulpit,  with  a  purpose  never  to  come  down  its  steps,  until 
he  should  have  spoken  words  like  the  above.  More  than 
once,  he  had  cleared  his  throat,  and  drawn  in  the  long, 
deep,  and  tremulous  breath,  which,  when  sent  forth  again, 
would  come  burdened  with  the  black  secret  of  his  soul. 
More  than  once  —  nay,  more  than  a  hundred  times  — 
he  had  actually  spoken  !  Spoken  !  But  how  ?  He  had 
told  his  hearers  that  he  was  altogether  vile,  a  viler  com- 
panion  of  the  vilest,  the  worst  of  sinners,  an  abomina 
tion,  a  thing  of  unimaginable  iniquity  ;  and  that  the  only 
wonder  was,  that  they  did  not  see  his  wretched  body 
shrivelled  up  before  their  eyes,  by  the  burning  wrath  of 
the  Almighty!  Could  there  be  plainer  speech  than  this  i 
Would  not  the  people  start  up  in  their  seats,  bv  a  simul 
taneous  impulse,  and  tear  him  down  out  of  t\e  pulpit 
which  he  denied  ?  Not  so,  indeed !  They  heard  it 
nil,  and  did  but  reverence  him  the  more.  They  little 


THE    INTERIOR    OF    A    HEART.  1()7 

what  deadly  puiport  lucked  in  those  self-con 
demning  words.  "  The  godly  youth ! "  said  they  among 
themselves.  "  The  saint  on  earth  !  Alas,  if  he  discern 
such  sinfulness  in  his  own  white  soul,  what  horrid  spec 
tacle  would  he  behold  in  thine  or  mine  ! "  The  minister 
well  knew  —  subtle,  but  remorseful  hypocrite  tlmt  he 
was  !  —  the  light  in  which  his  vague  confession  would 
be  viewed.  He  had  striven  to  put  a  cheat  upon  himself 
by  making  the  avowal  of  a  guilty  conscience,  but  had 
Ofained  only  one  other  sin,  and  a  self-acknowledged 
shame,  without  the  momentary  relief  of  being  self-de 
ceived.  He  had  spoken  the  very  truth,  and  transformed 
it  into  the  veriest  falsehood.  And  yet,  by  the  constitu 
tion  of  his  nature.,  he  loved  the  truth,  and  loathed  the 
lie,  as  few.  men  ever  did.  Therefore,  above  all  things 
else,  he  loathed  his  miserable  self! 

His  inward  trouble  drove  him  to  practices  more  in 
accordance  with  the  old,  corrupted  faith  of  Rome,  than 
with  the  better  light  of  the  church  in  which  he  had  been 
born  and  bred.  In  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  secret  closet,  under 
lock  and  key,  there  was  a  bloody  scourge.  Oftentimes, 
this  Protestant  and  Puritan  divine  had  plied  it  on  his 
own  shoulders ;  laughing  bitterly  at  himself  the  while, 
and  smiting  so  much  the  more  pitilessly  because  of  that 
bitter  laugh.  It  was  his  custom,  too,  as  it  has  been  thai 
if  many  other  pious  Puritans,  to  fast,  —  not,  however, 
like  them,  in  order  to  purify  the  body  and  render  it  the 
titter  medium  of  celestial  illumination,  but  rigorously, 
and  until  his  knees  trembled  beneath  him,  as  an  act  cf 
penance.  He  kept  vigils,  likewise,  night  after  night, 
sometimes  in  utter  darkness  ;  sometimes  with  a  glim* 
mering  lamp;  and  sometimes,  viewing-  his  OWP  far^  w  a 


168  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

looking-glass,  by  the  most  powerful  light  which  he  could 
throw  upon  it.  He  thus  typified  the  constant  intro 
spection  wherewith  he  tortured,  but  could  not  purify, 
himself.  In  these  lengthened  vigils,  his  brain  often 
reeled,  and  visions  seemed  to  flit  before  him ;  perhaps 
seen  doubtfully,  and  by  a  faint  light  of  their  own,  in  the 
remote  dimness  of  the  chamber,  or  more  vividly,  and 
close  beside  him,  within  the  looking-glass.  Now  it  was 
a  herd  of  diabolic  shapes,  that  grinned  and  mocked  at 
the  pale  minister,  and  beckoned  him  away  with  them ; 
now  a  group  of  shining  angels,  who  flew  upward  heavily, 
is  sorrow-laden,  but  grew  more  ethereal  as  they  rose. 
Now  came  the  dead  friends  of  his  youth,  and  his  white- 
bearded  father,  with  a  saint-like  frown,  and  his  mother, 
turning  her  face  away  as  she  passed  by.  Ghost  of  a 
mother,  —  thinnest  fantasy  of  a  mother,  —  methinks  shf 
might  yet  have  thrown  a  pitying  glance  towards  her  son  ! 
And  now,  through  the  chamber  which  these  spectral 
thoughts  had  made  so  ghastly,  glided  Hester  Prynne, 
leading  along  little  Pearl,  in  her  scarlet  garb,  and  point 
ing  her  forefinger,  first  at  the  scarlet  letter  on  her  bosom, 
and  then  at  the  clergyman's  own  breast. 

None  of  these  visions  ever  quite  deluded  him.  At  any 
moment,  by  an  effort  of  his  will,  he  could  discern  sub 
stances  through  their  misty  lack  of  substance,  and  con 
vince  himself  that  they  were  not  solid  in  their  nature, 
like  yonder  table  of  carved  oak,  or  that  big,  square, 
leathern-bound  and  brazen-clasped  volume  of  divinity. 
But,  for  all  that,  they  were,  in  one  sense,  the  truest  and 
uost  substantial  things  which  the  poor  minister  now 
dealt  with.  It  is  the  unspeakable  misery  of  a  life  sn 
false  as  his,  that  it  steals  the  pith  and  substance  out  of 


THE    INTERIOR    OF    A    HtART.  169 

whatever  realities  there  are  around  us,  and  which  were 
meant  by  Heaven  to  be  the  spirit's  joy  and  nutriment, 
To  the  untrue  man,  the  whole  universe  is  false,  —  it  is 
impalpable,  —  it  shrinks  to  nothing  within  his  grasp. 
And  he  himself,  in  so  far  as  he  shows  himself  in  a  false 
light,  becomes  a  shadow,  or,  indeed,  ceases  to  exist.  The 
only  truth  that  continued  to  give  Mr.  Dimmesdale  a  rea1 
existence  on  this  earth,  was  the  anguish  in  his  inmost 
soul,  and  the  undissembled  expression  of  it  in  his  -aspect. 
Had  he  once  found  power  to  smile,  and  wear  a  face  of 
gayety,  there  would  have  been  no  such  man  ! 

On  one  of  those  ugly  nights,  which  we  have  faintly 
hinted  at,  but  forborne  to  picture  forth,  the  ministei 
started  from  his  chair.  A  new  thought  had  struck  him. 
There  might  be  a  moment's  peace  in  it.  Attiring  him 
self  with  as  much  care  as  if  it  had  been  for  public  wor 
ship,  and  precisely  in  the  same  mariner,  he  stole  softll 
iown  the  staircase,  undid  the  door,  e  nd  issued  forth, 


'70  THE    SCARLET    LETTEB. 


XII. 

THK  MINISTER'S   VIGIL. 

WAITING  in  the  shadow  of  a  dream,  as  it  were,  and 
perhaps  actually  under  the  influence  of  a  species  of  som 
nambulism,  Mr.  Dimmesdale  reached  the  spot,  where, 
new  so  iong  since,  Hester  Prynne  had  lived  through  hei 
first  hours  of  public  ignominy.  The  same  platform  ji 
scaffold,  black  and  weather-stained  with  the  storm  01 
sunshine  of  seven  long  years,  and  foot-worn,  too,  with 
the  tread  of  many  culprits  who  had  since  ascended  it, 
remained  standing  beneath  the  balcony  of  the  meeting 
house.  The  minister  went  up  the  steps. 

It  was  an  obscure  night  of  early  May.  An  unvaried 
pall  of  cloud  muffled  the  whole  expanse  of  sky  from 
zenith  to  horizon.  If  the  same  multitude  which  had 
siood  as  eye-witnesses  while  Hester  Prynne  sustained 
her  punishment  could  now  have  been  summoned  forth, 
they  would  have  discerned  no  face  above  -the  platform, 
nor  hardly  the  outline  of  a  human  shape,  in  the  dark 
gray  of  the  midnight.  But  the  town  was  all  asleep. 
There  was  no  peril  of  discovery.  The  minister  might 
stand  there,  if  it  so  pleased  him,  until  mini  ing  should 
redden  in  the  east,  without  other  risk  than  that  the  dank 
and  chill  night-air  would  creep  into  his  frame,  and  stiffen 
his  joints  with  rheumatism,  and  clog  his  throat  with 
catarrh  and  cough;  thereby  defrauding  the  expectant 
audience  of  to-morrow's  prayer  and  sermon.  No  eyif 
could  see  him,  save  that  ever-wakeful  one  which  haJ 


Tilt    MINISTER'S    VIGIL.  i7J 

hu/L  in  his  closet,  wielding  the  bloody  scourge. 
Whj ,  then,  had  he  come  hither  ?  Was  it  but  the  mock- 
ery  of  penitence  ?  A  mockery,  indeed,  but  in  which  hi? 
soul  trifled  with  itself!  A  mockery  at  which  angels 
blushed  and  wept,  while  fiends  rejoiced,  with  jeering 
laughter !  He  had  been  driven  hither  by  the  impulse  of 
that  Remorse  which  dogged  him  everywhere,  and  .whose 
own  sister  and  closely  linked  companion  was  that  Cow 
ardice  which  invariably  drew  him  back,  with  her  tremu 
lous  gripe,  just  when  the  other  impulse  had  hurried  him 
to  the  verge  of  a  disclosure.  Poor,  miserable  man  !  what 
nght  had  infirmity  like  his  to  burden  itself  with  crime  ? 
Crime  is  for  the  iron-nerved,  who  have  their  choice  either 
to  endure  it,  or,  if  it  press  too  hard,  to  exert  their  fierce 
and  savage  strength  for  a  good  purpose,  and  fling  it  off 
at  once  !  This  feeble  and  most  sensitive  of  spirits  could 
do  neither,  yet  continually  did  one  thing  or  another, 
which  intertwined,  in  the  same  inextricable  knot,  the 
agony  of  heaven-defying  guilt  and  vain  repentance. 

And  thus,  while  standing  on  the  scaffold,  in  this  vain 
show  of  expiation,  Mr.  Dimmesdale  was  overcome  with 
a  great  horror  of  mind,  as  if  the  universe  were  gazing  at 
a  scarlet  token  on  his  naked  breast,  right  over  His  heart. 
On  that  spot,  in  very  truth,  there  was,  and  there  had 
long  been,  the  gnawing  and  poisonous  tooth  of  bodily 
pain.  Without  any  effort  of  his  will,  or  power  to  restrain 
himself,  he  shrieked  aloud  ;  an  outcry  that  went  pealing 
through  the  night,  and  was  beaten  back  from  one  house 
to  another,  and  reverberated  from  the  hills  in  the  back 
ground  ;  as  if  a  company  of  devils,  detecting  so  much 
misery  and  terror  in  it,  had  made  a  plaything  of  th« 
sound,  and  were  bandying  it  to  and  fro. 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

"  It  is  done  ! "  muttered  the  minister,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands.  "  The  whole  town  will  awake,  and 
hurry  forth,  and  find  me  here  !  " 

But  it  was  not  so.  The  shriek  had  perhaps  sounded 
with  a  far  greater  power,  to  his  own  startled  ears,  than  it 
actually  possessed.  The  town  did  not  awake ;  or,  it  it 
did,  the  drowsy  slumberers  mistook  the  cry  either  fot 
something  frightful  in  a  dream,  or  for  the  noise  of  witch 
es ;  whose  voices,  at  that  period,  were  often  heard  to  pasa 
over  the  settlements  or  lonely  cottages,  as  they  rode  with 
Satan  through  the  air.  The  clergyman,  therefore,  hear- 
ing  no  symptoms  of  disturbance,  uncovered  his  eyes  and 
looked  about  him.  At  one  of  the  chamber-windows  of 
Governor  Bellingham's  mansion,  which  stood  at  some 
distance,  on  the  line  of  another  street,  he  beheld  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  old  magistratf  himself,  with  a  lamp  in 
his  hand,  a  white  night-cap  or  his  head,  and  a  long  white 
gown  enveloping  his  figure.  He  looked  like  a  ghost, 
evoked  unseasonably  from  the  grave.  The  cry  had  evi 
dently  startled  him.  At  another  window  of  the  same 
house,  moreover,  appeared  old  Mistress  Hibbins,  the  Gov 
ernor's  sister,  also  with  a  lamp,  which,  even  thus  far  off, 
revealed  the  expression  of  her  sour  and  discontented  face. 
She  thrust  forth  her  head  from  the  lattice,  and  looked 
anxiously  upward.  Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  this 
venerable  witch-lady  had  heard  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  out 
cry,  and  interpreted  it,  with  its  multitudinous  echoes  and 
reverberations,  as  the  clamor  of  tho  fiends  and  night-hag^, 
with  whom  she  was  well  known  to  make  ezcu/sions  into 
the  forest. 

Detecting  the  gleam  of  Governor  Bellingham's  lamp 
the  old  lady  quickly  extinguished  her  own,  and  ranishr ') 


THE  MINISTER'S  VIGIL.  173 

I'ossibly,  she  went  up  among  the  clouds.  The  niinbtei 
saw  nothing  further  of  her  motions.  The  magistrate 
after  a  wary  observation  of  the  darkness  —  into  which, 
nevertheless,  he  could  see  but  little  further  than  he  might 
into  a  mill-stone  —  retired  from  the  window. 

The  minister   grew  comparatively  calm      His   eyes, 
however,  were  soon  greeted  by  a  little,  glimmering  light, 

•which,  at  first  a  long  way  off,  was  approaching  up  the 
street.  It  threw  a  gleam  of  recognition  on  here  a  post, 
and  there  a  garden-fence,  and  here  a  latticed  window-pane, 
and  there  a  pump,  with  its  full  trough  of  water,  and  here, 
again,  an  arched  door  of  oak,  with  an  iron  knocker,  and 
a  rough  log  for  the  door-step.  The  Eeverend  Mr.  Dim- 
niesdale  noted  all  these  minute  particulars,  even  while 
firmly  convinced  that  the  doom  of  his  existence  was  steal 
ing  onward,  Li  the  footsteps  which  he  now  heard ;  and 
that  the  gleam  of  the  lantern  would  fall  upon  him,  in  a 
few  moments  more,  and  reveal  his  long-hidden  secret. 
As  the  light  drew  nearer,  he  beheld,  within  its  illumin 
ated  circle,  his  brother  clergyman,  —  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  his  professional  father,  as  well  as  highly  val 
ued  friend,  —  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilson  ;  who,  as  Mr. 
Dimmesdale  now  conjectured,  had  been  praying  at  thfi 
bedside  of  some  dying  man.  And  so  he  had.  The  good 
old  minister  came  freshly  from  the  death-chamber  of 
Governor  Winthrop,  who  had  passed  from  earth  to  heaven 

.  within  that  very  hour.  And  now  surrounded,  like  the 
saint-like  personages  of  olden  times,  with  a  radiant  halo, 
that  glorified  him  amid  this  gloomy  night  of  sin,  —  as  if 
the  departed  Governor  had  left  him  an  inheritance  of  hia 
glory,  or  as  if  he  had  caught  upon  himself  the  distant 
*hine  of  the  celestial  city,  while  looking  thitherward  to 


174  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

see  the  triumphant  pilgrim  pass  within  its  gates,—  uosv, 
in  short,  good  Father  Wilson  was  moving  homeward 
•\idinghisfootstepswith  a  lighted  lantern!  The  glim 
mei  of  this  luminary  suggested  the  above  conceits  to  Mr 
Dimmesdale,  who  smiled,  —  nay,  almost  laughed  at  them. 
—  and  then  wondered  if  he  were  going  mad. 

As  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilson  passed  beside  the  scaf 
fold,  closely  muffling  his  Geneva  cloak  about  him  witfc 
one  arm,  and  rnHing  the  lantern  before  his  breast  with 
the  other,  the  minister  could  hardly  restrain  himself  from 
sneaking. 

"  A  good  evening  to  you,  venerable  Father  Wilson ! 
Come  up  hither,  I  pray  you,  and  pass  a  pleasant  houi 
with  mo !  " 

Good  heavens  !  Had  Mr.  Dirnmesdale  actually  spoken  1 
For  one  instant,  he  believed  that  these  words  had  passed 
his  lips.  But  they  were  uttered  only  within  his  imagin 
ation.  The  venerable  Father  Wilson  continued  to  step 
slowly  onward,  looking  carefully  at  the  muddy  pathway 
before  his  feet,  and  never  once  turning  his  head  towards 
the  guilty  platform.  When  the  light  of  the  glimmering- 
lantern  had  faded  quite  away,  the  minister  discovered,  by 
the  faintness  which  came  over  him,  that  the  last  few  mo 
ments  had  been  a  crisis  of  terrible  anxiety ;  although  hi* 
mind  had  made  an  involuntary  effort  to  relieve  itself  by 
a  kind  of  lurid  playfulness. 

Shortly  afterwards,  the  like  grisly  sense  of  the  humor 
ous  again  stole  in  among  the  solemn  phantoms  of  hi# 
thought.  He  felt  his  limbs  growing  stiff  with  the  unac 
customed  chilliness  of  the  night,  and  doubted  whether  h0 
should  be  able  to  descend  the  steps  of  the  scaffold 
Morning  would  break  and  find  him  there.  The  nei^li 


fHE    MINISTER'S    VIGTL  175 

Norhood  would  begin  to  rouse  itself.  The  earliest  riser, 
coming  forth  in  the  'Mm  twilight,  would  perceive  a  vague 
ly  defined  figure  aloft  on  the  place  of  shame ;  and,  half 
crazed  be*\v»xt  alarm  and  curiosity,  would  go,  knocking 
from  door  ti  door,  summoning  all  the  people  to  behold 
the  ghost  —  as  he  needs  must  think  it  —  of  some  defunct 
transgressor.  A  dusky  tumult  would  flap  its  wings  from 
one  house  to  another.  Then  —  the  morning  light  still 
waxing  stronger — old  patriarchs  would  rise  up  in  great 
haste,  each  in  his  flannel  gown,  and  matronly  dames, 
without  pausing  to  put  off  their  night-gear.  The  whole 
tribe  of  decorous  personages,  who  had  never  heretofore 
been  seen  with  a  single  hair  of  their  heads  awry,  would 
start  into  public  view,  with  the  disorder  of  a  nightmare 
in  their  aspects.  Old  Governor  Bcllingham  would  come 
grimly  forth,  with  his  King  James'  ruff  fastened  askew  ; 
and  Mistress  Hibbins,  with  some  twigs  of  the  forest  cling 
ing  to  her  skirts,  and  looking  sourer  than  ever,  as  having 
hardly  got  a  wink  of  sleep  after  her  night  ride ;  and  good 
Father  Wilson,  too,  after  spending  half  the  night  at  a 
death-bed,  and  liking  ill  to  be  disturbed,  thus  early,  out 
of  his  dreams  about  the  glorified  saints.  Hither,  like 
wise,  would  come  the  elders  and  deacons  of  Mr.  Dimmes- 
dale's  church,  anil  the  young  A  irgins  who  so  idolized  their 
minister,  and  had  made  a  shrine  for  him  in  their  white 
bosoms ;  which  now,  by  the  by,  in  their  hurry  and  con 
fusion,  they  would  scantly  have  given  themselves  time 
to  cover  with  their  kerchiefs.  All  people,  in  a  word, 
would  come  stumbling  over  their  thresholds,  and  turning 
up  their  amazed  and  horror-stricken  visages  around  the 
scaffold.  Whom  would  they  discern  th~~e,  with  the  red 
eastern  light  upon  his  brow  ?  Whom,  but  the  R«ver€nd 


176  THE  SCARLET  LETThK. 

Arthur  Dimmesdale,  half  frozen  to  death,  overwhelmed 
with  shame,  and  standing  where  Hester  Prynne  had 
stood ! 

Carried  away  by  the  grotesque  horror  of  this  picture, 
the  minister,  unawares,  and  to  his  own  infinite  alarm, 
burst  into  a  great  peal  of  laughter.  It  was  immediately 
responded  to  by  a  light,  airy,  childish  laugh,  in  which 
with  a  thrill  of  the  heart,  —  but  he  knew  not  whether  of 
exquisite  pain,  or  pleasure  as  acute,  —  he  recognized  the 
tones  of  little  Pearl. 

"  Pearl !  Little  Pearl !  "  cried  he,  after  a  moment's 
pause  ;  then,  suppressing  his  voice,  —  "  Hester !  Hester 
Prynne  !  Are  you  there  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  Hester  Prynne ! "  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise  ;  and  the  minister  heard  her  footsteps  approach 
ing  from  the  sidewalk,  along  which  she  had  been  passing. 
"  It  is  I,  and  my  little  Pearl." 

"Whence  come  you,  Hester?"  asked  the  minister 
"  What  sent  you  hither  ?" 

"  I  have  been  watching  at  a  death-bed,"  answered  Hes 
ter  Prynne;  —  "at  Governor  Winthrop's  death-bed,  and 
have  taken  his  measure  for  a  robe,  and  am  now  going 
homeward  to  my  dwelling." 

"  Come  up  hither,  Hester,  thou  and  little  Pearl,"  said 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale.  "  Ye  have  both  been 
here  before,  but  I  was  not  with  you.  Come  up  hither 
once  again,  and  we  tvill  stand  all  three  together  !  " 

She  silently  ascended  the  steps,  and  stood  on  the  plat 
form,  holding  little  Pearl  by  the  hand.  The  minister  felt 
for  the  child's  other  hand,  and  took  it.  The  moment 
that  he  did  so,  there  came  what  seemed  a  tumultuous 
rush  of  new  life,  other  life  than  hit  own,  pouring  like  o 


THE  MINISTER'S  VIGIL.  17} 

torrent  into  his  heart,  and  hurrying  through  all  his 
veins,  as  if  the  mother  and  the  child  were  communi 
cating  their  vital  warmth  to  his  half-torpid  system.  The 
three  formed  an  electric  chain. 

"  Minister!  "  whispered  little  Pearl. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  say,  child  ? "  asked  Mr,  Dim- 
mesdale. 

"  Wilt  thou  stand  here  with  mother  and  me,  to-mor 
row  noontide  ?  "  inquired  Pearl. 

"  Nay  ;  not  so,  my  little  Pearl,"  answered  the  minis 
ter  ;  for,  with  the  new  energy  of  the  moment,  all  the 
dread  of  public  exposure,  that  had  so  long  been  the 
anguish  of  his  life,  had  returned  upon  him  ;  and  he  was 
already  trembling  at  the  conjunction  in  which  —  with  a 
strange  joy,  nevertheless  —  he  now  found  himself.  "  Not 
so,  my  child.  I  shall,  indeed,  stand  with  thy  mother 
and  thee  one  other  day,  but  not  to-morrow." 

Pearl  laughed,  and  attempted  to  pull  away  her  hand. 
But  the  minister  held  it  fast. 

"  A  moment  longer,  my  child  ! "  said  he. 

"  But  wilt  thou  promise,"  asked  Pearl,  "  to  take  my 
hand,  and  mother's  hand,  to-morrow  noontide  ? " 

"  Not  then,  Pearl,"  said  the  minister,  "  but  another 
time." 

"  And  what  other  time  ? "  persisted  the  child. 

"  At  the  great  judgment  day,"  whispered  the  minis' 
ter,  —  and,  strangely  enough,  the  sense  that  he  was  a 
professional  teacher  of  the  truth  impelled  him  to  answer 
the  child  so. .  "  Then,  and  there,  before  the  judgment- 
seat,  thy  mother,  and  thou,  and  I,  must  stand  together, 
But  the .  daylight  of  this  world  shall  not  see  our  meet 
ing'" 

12 


178  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

Pearl  laughed  again. 

But,  before  Mr.  Dimmesdale  had  done  speaking,  s 
light  gleamed  far  and  wide  over  all  the  muffled  sty.  It 
was  doubtless  caused  by  one  of  those  meteors,  which 
the  night-watcher  may  so  often  observe  burning  Dut  to 
waste,  in  the  vacant  regions  of  the  atmosphere.  So 
powerful  was  its  radiance,  that  it  thoroughly  illuminated 
the  dense  medium  of  cloud  betwixt  the  sky  and  earth. 
The  great  vault  brightened,  like  the  dome  of  an  im 
mense  lamp.  It  showed  the  familiar  scene  of  the 
street,  with  the  distinctness  of  mid-day,  but  also  with 
the  awfulness  that  is  always  imparted  to  familiar  objects 
by  an  unaccustomed  light.  The  wooden  houses,  with 
their  jutting  stories  and  quaint  gable-peaks ;  the  door 
steps  and  thresholds,  with  the  early  grass  springing  up 
about  them  ;  the  garden-plots,  black  with  freshly  turned 
earth  ;  the  wheel-track,  little  worn,  and,  even  in  the 
market-place,  margined  with  green  on  either  side ;  — 
all  were  visible,  but  with  a  singularity  of  a,sp_ect  that 
Deemed  to  give  another  jnoralintcrpretatiQn  to  the  things 
of  this  world  than  they  had  ever  borne,  before.  And  there 
stood  the  minister,  with  his  handover  his  heart;  and 
Hester  Prynne,  with  the  embroidered  letter  glimmering 
on  her  bosom ;  and  little  Pearl,  herself  a  symbol,  and 
the  connecting  link  between  those  two.  They  s£ojod  in 
the  noon  of  that  strange  and  solemn  splendor,  as  if  it 
were  the  light  that  is  to  reveal  all  secrets,  and  the  day 
oreak  that  shall  unite  aij_ who  belong  to  one  another. 

There  was  witchcraft  in  little  Pearl's  eyes ,  and  he] 
,"ace,  as  she  glanced  upward  at  the  minister,  wore  thai 
naughty  smile  which  made  its  expressioi  frequently  so 
•?S*vsh.  She  withdrew  her  hand  from  MI*.  Dimmesdale' s 


/HE  MINISTER'S  VIGIL.  179 

and  pointed  ac/oss  the  street.  But  he  clashed  both  his 
hands  over  his  breast,  and  cast  his  eyes  towards  the 
zenith. 

Nothing  was  more  common,  in  those  days,  than  to 
interpret  all  meteoric  appearances,  and  other  natural 
phenomena,  that  occurred  with  less  regularity  than  the 
rise  and  set  of  sun  and  moon,  as  so  many  revelations 
from  a  *  supernatural  source.  Thus,  a  blazing  spear,  a 
sword  of  flame,  a  bow,  or  a  sheaf  of  arrows,  seen  in  the 
midnight  sky,  prefigured  Indian  warfare.  Pestilence 
was  known  to  have  been  foreboded  by  a  shower  of 
crimson  light.  We  doubt  whether  any  marked  event, 
for  good  or  evil,  ever  befell  New  England,  from  its  set 
tlement  down  to  Revolutionary  times,  of  which  the  in 
habitants  had  not  been  previously  warned  by  some  spec 
tacle  of  this  nature.  Not  seldom,  it  had  been  seen  by 
multitudes.  Oftener,  however,  its  credibility  rested  on 
the  faith  of  some  lonely  eye-witness,  who  beheld  the 
wonder  through  the  colored,  magnifying,  and  distorting 
medium  of  his  imagination,  and  shaped  it  more  distinctly 
in  his  after-thought.  It  was,  indeed,  a  majestic  idea, 
that  the  destiny  of  nations  should  be  revealed,  in  the^e 
awful  hieroglyphics,  on  the  cope  of  heaven.  A  scroll  so 
wride  might  not  be  deemed  toQ  expansive  for  Provi 
dence  to  write  a  people's  doom  upon.  The  belief  was  a 
favorite  one  \vith  our  forefathers,  as  betokening  that 
their  infant  commonwealth  was  under  a  celestial  guar 
dianship  of  peculiar  intimacy  and  strictness.  But  what 
shall  we  say  when  an  individual  discovers  a  revelation 
addressed  to  himself  alone,  on  the  same  vast  sheet  of 
leccrd  !  In  such  a  case,  it  could  only  be  the  symptom 
^f  a  highly  disordered  mental  state,  when  a  man,  r«« 


180  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

dered  morbidly  self-contemplative^byjong,  intense ,  ana 
secret  pain,  had  extended  his  egotism  over  the  whole 
expanse  oTrialure,  until  thjTjmnament  itself  should  ap 
pear  nat«er^lbana  fitting  page  for  his  soul's  history  ana 
fate ' 

We  impute  it,  therefore,  solely  to  the  disease  in  his 
own  eye  and  heart,  that  the  minister,  looking  upward 
to  the  zenith,  beheld  there  the  appearance  of  «an  im 
mense  letter,  —  the  letter  A,  —  marked  out  in  lines  of 
dull  red  light.  Not  but  the  meteor  may  have  shown 
itself  at  that  point,  burning  duskily  through  a  veil  of 
cloud ;  but  with  no  such  shape  as  his  guilty  imagina 
tion  gave  it ;  or,  at  least,  with  so  little  definiteness,  that 
another's  guilt  might  have  seen  another  symbol  in  it. 

There  was  a  singular  circumstance  that  characterized 
Mr.  Dimmesdale's  psychological  state,  at  this  moment. 
All  the  time  that  he  gazed  upward  to  the  zenith,  he 
was,  nevertheless,  perfectly  aware  that  little  Pearl  wa* 
pointing  her  finger  towards  old  Roger  Chillingwonh, 
\vlio  stood  at  no  great  distance  from  the  scaffold.  The 
minister  appeared  to  see  him,  with  the  same  glance  thai 
discerned  the  miraculous  letter.  To  his  features,  as  ta 
all  other  objects,  the  meteoric  light  imparted  a  new  ex 
pression  ;  or  it  might  w.ell  be  that  the  physician  was  not 
careful  then,  as  at  all  other  times,  to  hide  the  malevolence 
with  which  he  looked  upon  his  victim.  Certainly,  if  the 
meteor  kindled  up  the  sky,  and  disclosed  the  earth,  with 
an  awfulness  that  admonished  Hester  Prynne  and  the 
clergyman  of  the  day  of  judgment,  then  might  Kogei 
Chillingworth  have  passed  with  them  for  the  arch-fiend,, 
standing  there  with  a  smile  and  scowl,  to  claim  his  own. 
^o  vivid  was  the  expression,  or  so  intense  the  minister* 


THE  MINISTER'S  VIGIL.  181 

perception  of  it,  that  it  seemed  still  to  remain  painted  on 
the  darkness,  after  the  meteor  had  vanished,  with  an 
effect  as  if  the  street  and  all  things  else  were  at  once 
annihilated. 

"  Who  is  that  man,  Hester  ? "  gasped  Mr.  Dimmes- 
dale,  overcome  with  terror.  "  I  shiver  at  him .!  Dost 
thou  know  the  man  ?  I  hate  him,  Hester  ! " 

She  remembered  her  oath,  and  was  silent. 

"  I  tell  thee,  my  soul  shivers  at  him  !  "  muttered  the 
minister  again.  "  Who  is  he  ?  Who  is  he  ?  Canst 
thou  do  nothing  for  me  ?  I  have  a  nameless  horror  of 
the  man !" 

"  Minister,"  said  little  Pearl,  "  I  can  tell  thee  who  he 
is ! " 

"  Quickly,  then,  child  ! "  said  the  minister,  bending 
his  ear  close  to  her  lips.  "  Quickly !  —  and  as  low  as 
thou  canst  whisper." 

Pearl  mumbled  something  into  his  ear,  that  sounded, 
indeed,  like  human  language,  but  was  only  such  gibber 
ish  as  children  may  be  heard  amusing  themselves  with, 
by  the  hour  together.  At  all  events,  if  it  involved  any 
secret  information  in  regard  to  old  Roger  Chillingworth, 
it  was  in  a  tongue  unknown  to  the  erudite  clergyman, 
and  did  but  increase  the  bewilderment  of  his  mind. 
The  elvish  child  then  laughed  aloud. 

"  Dust  thou  mock  me  now  ? "  said  the  minister. 

"  Thou  wast  not  bold  !  —  thou  wast  not  true  !  '•  — 
answered  the  child.  "Thou  wouldst  not  promise  to 
take  my  hand,  and  mother's  hand,  to-morrow  noon 
tide  ! " 

"  Worthy  Sir,"  answered  the  physician,  who  had  now 
advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  platform.  "P'ous  Mastei 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

Dimmesdale  .  can  this  be  you.  ?  Well,  well,  indeed  ! 
We  men  of  study,  whose  heads  are  in  our  books,  have 
iced  to  be  ?traitly  looked  after !  We  dieam  in  ou/ 
making  moments,  and  walk  in  our  sleep.  Come,  good 
Sir,  and  my  dear  friend,  I  pray  you,  let  me  lead  you 
lorpe !  " 

"  How  knewest  thou  that  I  was  here  ? "  asked  the 
minister,  fearfully. 

"  Verily,  and  in  good  faith,"  answered  Roger  Chil- 
lingworth,  "  I  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  I  had  spent 
the  better  part  of  the  night  at  the  bedside  of  the  wor 
shipful  Governor  Winthrop,  doing  what  my  poor  skill 
might  to  give  him  ease.  He  going  home  to  a  better 
world,  I,  likewise,  was  on  my  way  homeward,  when  this 
strange  light  shone  out.  Come  with  me,  I  beseech  you, 
Reverend  Sir ;  else  you  will  be  poorly  able  to  do  Sab 
bath  duty  to-morrow.  Aha  !  see  now,  how  they  trouble 
the  brain,  —  these  books  !  —  these  books  !  You  should, 
study  less,  good  Sir,  and  take  a  little  pastime  ;  or  these 
night-whirnseys  will  grow  upon  you." 

"  I  will  go  home  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Dimmesdale. 

With  a  chill  despondency,  like  one  awaking,  all  nerve 
less,  from  an  ugly  dream,  he  yielded  himself  to  the  piiy- 
sician,  and  was  led  away. 

The  next  day,  however,  being  the  Sabbath,  he  preached 
a  discourse  which  was  held  to  be  the  richest  and  most 
powerful,  and  the  most  replete  with  heavenly  influences, 
that  had  ever  proceeded  from  his  lips.  Souls,  it  is  said 
more  souls  than  one.  were  brought  to  the  truth  by  the 
>fficacy  of  that  sermon,  and  vowed  within  themselves  to 
cherish  a  holy  gratitude  towards  Mr.  Dimmesdale  through- 
MJt  the  long  hereafter.  But,  as  he  came  down  the  puj 


THE  MINISTER'S  VIGIL.  183 

pit  ateps,  the  gray-bearded  sexton  met  him,  holding  up  a 
Mack  glove,  which  the  minister  recognized  as  his  own 

"  It  was  found,"  said  the  sexton,  "  this  morning,  on 
the  scaffold  where  evil-doers  are  set  up  to  public  shame, 
Satan  dropped  it  there,  I  take  it,  intending  a  scurrilous 
jest  against  your  reverence.  But,  indeed,  he  was  blind 
and  fooiish,  as  he  ever  and  always  is.  A  pure  hand 
needs  no  glove  to  cover  it ! " 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  minister, 
gravely,  but  startled  at  heart ;  for,  so  confused  was  his 
remembrance,  that  he  had  almost  brought  himself  to 
Jook  at  the  events  of  the  past  night  as  visionary.  "  Yes. 
it  seems  to  be  my  glove,  indeed ! " 

"  And,  since  Satan  saw  fit  to  steal  it,  your  reverence 
must  needs  handle  him  without  gloves,  henceforward," 
remarked  the  old  sexton,  grimly  smiling.  "  But  did 
your  reverence  hear  of  the  portent  that  was  seen  last 
night? — a  great  red  letter  in  the  sky,  —  the  letter  A, 
which  we  interpret  to  stand  for  Angel.  For,  as  our 
good  Governor  Winthrop  was  made  an  angel  this  past 
night,  it  was  doubtless  held  fit  that  there  sho'ild  be 
uc:ne  notice  thereof! " 

"No,"  answered  the  minister,  "1  had  no*  heard 
of  it" 


184  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 


XIII. 

ANOTHER  VIEW  OF  HESTER 

IK  her  late  singular  interview  with  Mr.  Di'mmesdale, 
Hester  Prynne  was  shocked  at  the  condition  to  which 
she  found  the  clergyman  reduced.  His  nerve  seemed 
absolutely  destroyed.  His  moral  force  was  abased  into 
more  than  childish  weakness.  It  grovelled  helpless  on 
the  ground,  even  while  his  intellectual  faculties  re 
tained  their  pristine  strength,  or  had  perhaps  acquired 
a  morbid  energy,  which  disease  only  could  have  given 
them.  With  her  knowledge  of  a  train  of  circumstances 
hidden  from  all  others,  she  could  readily  infer  that 
besides  the  legitimate  action  of  his  own  conscience 
a  terrible  machinery  had  been  brought  to  bear,  and  was 
still  operating,  on  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  well-being  and 
repose.  Knowing  what  this  poor,  fallen  man  had  once 
been,  her  whole  soul  was  moved  by  the  shuddering  ter 
ror  with  which  he  had  appealed  to  her, —  the  outcast 
woman,  —  for  support  against  his  instinctively  discov 
ered  enemy.  She  decided,  moreover,  that  he  had  a 
right  to  her  utmost  aid.  Little  accustomed,  in  her  long 
seclusion  from  society,  to  measure  her  ideas  of  right 
and  wrong  by  any  standard  external  to  herself,  Hester 
saw  —  or  seemed  to  see  —  that  there  lay  a  responsibility 
upon  her,  in  reference  to  the  clergyman,  which  she  owed 
to  no  other,  nor  to  the  whole  world  besides.  The_Iinks 
that  united  hejjto_jhj£--jest-of  human  kind  —  links  of 
rers,  or  silk,  or  gold,  or  whatever  the  material-  — had 


ANOTHER    VIEW    OF    HESTER. 


was  the  iron  link  of  mutual 
crime,  which  neither  he  nor  she  couTSHBreak.  Like  all 
other  tieSj  it  brought  along  with  it  its  obligations. 

Hester  Prynne  did  not  now  occupy  precisely  the 
same  position  in  which  we  beheld  her  during  the  earlier 
periods  of  her  ignominy.  Years  had  come  and  gone. 
Pearl  was  now  seven  years  old.  Her  mother,  with  the 
scarlet  letter  on  her  breast,  glittering  in  its  fantastic 
embroidery,  had  long  been  a  familiar  object  to  the 
townspeople  As  is  apt  to  be  the  case  when  a  person 
stands  out  in  any  prominence  before  the  community, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  interferes  neither  with  public  nor 
individual  interests  and  convenience,  a  species  of  gen 
eral  regard  had  ultimately  grown  up  in  reference  tc 
Hester  Prynne.  It  is  to  the  credit  of  human  nature, 
that,  except  where  its  selfishness  is  brought  into  play, 
it  loves  more  readily  than  it  hates.  Hatred,  by  a  grad 
ual  and  quiet  process,  will  even  be  transformed  to  love, 
unless  the  change  be  impeded  by  a*  continually  new 
irritation  of  the  original  feeling  of  hostility.  In  this 
matter  of  Hester  Prynne,  there  was  neither  irritation 
nor  irksomeness.  She  never_battled  with  the  public, 
hut  submitted,  uncomplainingly,  to  its  worst  usage ;  she 
made  no  claim  upon  it,  in  requital  for  what  she  suf 
fered  ;  she  did  not  weigh  upon  its  sympathies.  Then, 
also,  the  blameless  purity  of  her  life  during  all  these 
years  in  which  she  had  been  set  apart  to  infamy,  was 
reckoned  largely  in  her  favor.  With  nothing  now  t€ 
lose,  in  the  sight  of  mankind,  and  with  no  hope,  and 
seemingly  no  wish,  of  gaining  anything,  it  could  only 
be  a  genuine  regard  for  virtue  that  had  brought  baci 
the  poor  wanderer  to  its  paths. 


]86  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

It  was  perceived,  too,  that  while  Hester  never  put 
forward  even  the_humblest  title  to  share  in  the  world's 
privileges. — further  than  to  breathe  the  common  airv 
and  earn  daily  bread  for  little  Pearl  and  herself  b)  the 
ftithful  labor  of  her  hands,  —  she  was  quick  to  acknmvl- 
.dge  her  sisterhood  with  the  nice  of _  man,.,  whenever 
benefits  were  to  be  conferred.  None  so  ready  as  she  tt 
give  of  her  little  substance  to  every  demand  of  poverty ; 
even  though  the  bitter-hearted  pauper  threw  back  a  gibe 
in  requital  of  the  food  brought  regularly  to  his  door,  01 
the  garments  wrought  for  him  by  the  fingers  that  could 
have  embroidered  a  monarch's  robe.  None  so  self- 
devoted  as  Hester,  when  pestilence  stalked  through  the 
town.  In  all  seasons  of  calamity,  indeed,  whether 
general  or  of  individuals,  the  outcast  of  society  at  once 
found  her  place.  She  came,  not  as  a  guest,  but  as  a 
rightful  inmate,  into  the  household  that  was  darkened 
by  trouble ;  as  if  its  gloomy  twilight  were  a  medium  in 
which  she  was  entitled  to  hold  intercourse  with  her 
fellow-creatures.  There  glimmered  the  embroidered 
letter,  with  comfort  in  its  unearthly  ray.  Elsewhere 
the  token  of  sin,  it  was  the  taper  -of  the  sick-chamber, 
it  had  even  thrown  its  gleam,  in  the  sufferer's  hard  ex 
tremity,  across  the  verge  of  time.  It  had  shown  him 
where  to  sot  his  foot,  while  the  light  of  earth  was  fast 
beccming  iim,  and  ere  the  light  of  futurity  could  reach 
him.  In  such  emergencies,  Hester's  nature  showed 
itself  warm  and  rich ;  a  well-spring  of  human  tender 
ness,  unfailing  to  every  real  demand,  and  inexhaustible 
by  the  largest.  Her  breast,  with  its  oadge  of  shame, 
was  but  the  softer  pillow  for  the  head  that  needed  one, 
Sh.e  was  self-ordained  a  Sister  of  Mercy;  or,  we  may 


ANOTHER    VIEW   OF    HESTER.  187 

rather  say,  the  world's  heavy  hand  had  so  ordained  her, 
when  neither  the  world  nor  she  looked  forward  to  this 
result.  The  letter  was  the  symbol  of  her  calling.  Such 
helpfulness  was  found  in  her, — so  much  power  to  do, 
and  power  to  sympathize,  —  that  many  people  refused 
to  interpret  the  scarlet  A  by  its  original  signification. 
They  said  that  it  meant  Able;  so  strong  was  Hester 
Prynne,  with  a  woman's  strength. 

It  was  only  the  darkened  house  that  could  contain 
her.  When  sunshine  came  again,  she  was  not  there 
Her  shadow  had  faded  across  the  threshold.  The  help 
ful  inmate  had  departed,  without  one  backward  glance 
to  gather  up  the  meed  of  gratitude,  if  any  were  in  the 
hearts  of  those  whom  she  had  served  so  zealously. 
Meeting  them  in  the  street,  she  never  raised  her  head 
to  receive  their  greeting.  If  they  were  resolute  to 
accost  her,  she  laid  her  finger  on  the  scarlet  letter,  and 
passed  on.  This  might  be  pride,  but  was  so  like  hu 
mility,  that  it  produced  all  the  softening  influence  of 
the  latter  quality  on  the  public  mind.  The  public  is 
despotic  in  its  temper;  it  is  capable  of  denying  com 
mon  justice,  when  too  strenuously  demanded  as  a  right; 
but  quite  as  frequently  it  awards  more  than  justice, 
when  the  appeal  is  made,  as  despots  love  to  have  it 
made,  entirely  to  its  generosity.  Interpreting  Hester 
Prynne 's  deportment  as  an  appeal  of  this  nature,  society 
was  inclined  to  show  its  former  victim  a  more  benign 
countenance  than  she  cared  to  be  favored  with,  or,  per 
chance,  than  she  deserved. 

The  rulers,  and  the  wise  and  learned  men  of  the 
community,  were  longer  in  acknowledging  the  infill* 
«nre  of  Hester's  good  qualities  than  the  people.  The 


188  THE    SCARLET    LETTEll. 

prejudices  which  they  shared  in  common  with  the  lattei 
were  fortified  in  themselves  by  an  iron  framework  of 
reasoning,  that  made  it  a  far  tougher  labor  to  expe^1 
them.  Day  by  day,  nevertheless,  their  sour  and  rigid 
wrinkles  were,  relaxing  into  something  which,  in  the 
due  course  of  years,  might  grow  to  be  an  expression  of 
almost  benevolence.  Thus  it  was  wttk— tke_ men— of 
rank,  on  whom  their  ejTrjnerit  jnsitinn  imposed  the 
guardianship  of  the  public  morals.  IndividualFTn  pri 
vate  life,  meanwhile,  had  quite  foTgiv  en  I  letter  Pry  nne 
for  her  frailty ;  nay,  more,  they  had  begun  to  look  upon 
the  scarlet  letter  as  the  token,  not  of  that  one  sin,  for 
which  she  had  borne  so  long  and  dreary  a  penance, 
but  of  her  many  good  deeds  since.  "  Do  you  see  that 
woman  with  the  embroidered  badge?"  they  would  say 
to  strangers.  "It  is  our  Hester,  —  the  town's  own 
Hester,  —  who  is  so  kind  to  the  poor,  so  helpful  to  the 
sick,  so  comfortable  to  the  afflicted  ! "  Then,  it  is  true, 
the  propensity  of  human  nature  to  tell  the  very  worst 
of  itself,  when  embodied  in  the  person  of  another,  would 
constrain  them  to  whisper  the  black  scandal  of  bygone 
years.  It  was  none  the  less  a  fact,  however,  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  very  men  who  spoke  thus,  the  scarlet 
letter  had  the  effect  of  the  cross  on  a  nun's  bosom.  It 
imparted  to  the  wearer  a  kind  of  sacredness,  which 
enabled  her  to  walk  securely  amid  all  peril.  Had  she 
fallen  among  thieves,  it  would  have  kept  her  safe.  It 
was  reported,  and  believed  by  many,  that  an  Indian  had 
Jrawn  his  arrow  against  the  badge,  and  that  the  miasiie 
struck  it,  but  fell  harmless  to  the  ground. 

The  effect  of  the  symbol  —  or,  rather,  of  the  position 
'.n   respect  to  society  that  was  indicated  by  it  — on  the 


JLNOTFER    VIEW    OF    HESTER.  1S9 

on'md  uf  Hester  Prynne  herself,  \vas  powerful  aud  pecu 
liar.  All  the  light, -and  graceful  foliage  of  her  charactei 
had  been  withered  up  by  th;s  red-hot  brand,  and  had 
iong  ago  fallen  _away^leaviag--a- bare  and  harsh  outline, 
which  might  have  been  repulsive,  had  she  possessed 
trienda  or  companions  to  be  repelled  by  it.  Even  the 
attractiveness  of  her  person  had  undergone  a  similar 
change.  It  might  be  partly  owing  to  the  studied  aus 
terity  of  her  dress,  and  partly  to  the  lack  of  demonstra 
tion  in  her  manners.  It  was  a  sad  transformation,  too, 
that  her  rich  and  luxuriant  hair  had  either  been  cut  off, 
or  was  so  completely  hidden  by  a  cap,  that  not  a  shining 
lock  of  it  ever  once  gushed  into  the  sunshine.  It  was 
due  in  part  to  all  these  causee,  but  still  more  to  some 
thing  else,  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  longer  anything 
in  Hester's  face  for  Love  to  dwell  upon;  nothing  in 
Hesters  form,  though  majestic  and  statue-like,  that  Pas 
sion  would  ever  dream  of  clasping  in  its  embrace ;  noth 
ing  in  Filter's  bosom,  to  make  it  ever  again  the  pillow 
of  Affec'.ion.  Some  attribute  had  departed  from  her,  the 
{ v-  nnanence  of  which  -  had  been  essential  to  keep  her  a 
jwoman.  Such  is  frequently  the  fate,  and  such  the  stern 
development,  of  the  feminine  character  and  person,  when 
the  woman  has  encountered,  and  lived  through,  an  ex 
perience  of  peculiar  severity.  If  she  be  all  tenderness, 
she  will  dn.  If  she  survive,  the  tenderness  will  either 
be  crushed  out  of  her,  or  —  and  the  outward  semblance 
is  the  sarr  ?  —  crushed  so  deeply  into  hor  heart  that 
it  can  nev^r  show  itself  more.  The  latter  is  perhaps 
the  truest  *.heory.  She  who  has  once  been,  woman, 
and  ceasnd  to  be  ?o,  might  at  any  moment  become  a 
?  /*  in  if  there  were  only  the  magic  touch  to 


190  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

effect  the  transfiguration.  We  shall  see  whether  Hestei 
Prynne  were  ever  afterwards  so  touched,  and  so  trans 
figured. 

Much  of  the  marble  coldness  of  Hester's  impression 
was  to  be  attributed  to  the  circumstance,  that  her  life 
had  turned,  in  a  great  measure,  from  passion  and  feeling, 
to  thought.  Standing  alone  in  the  world,  —  alone,  as  to 
any  dependence  on  society,  and  with  little  Pearl  to  be 
guided  and  protected,  —  alone,  and  hopeless  of  retrieving 
her  position,  even  had  she  not  scorned  to  consider  it 
desirable,  —  she  cast  away  the  fragments  of  a  broken 
chain.  The  world's  law  waj__rioJiiwJ'caL.her  mind.  It 
was  an  age  in  which  the  human-intellect,  newly  eman 
cipated,  had  taken  a  more  active  jind-a.  wider  range  than 
for_manx£enturies  before.  Men  of  the  sword  had  over 
thrown  nobles  and  kings.  Men  bolder  than  these  had 
overthrown  and  rearranged  —  not  actually,  but  within 
the  sphere  of  theory,  which  was  their  most  real  abode  — 
the  whob  system  of  ancient  prejudice,  wherewith  was 
linked  much  of  ancient  principle.  Hester  Prynne  im 
bibed  this  spirit.  She  assumed  a  freedom  of  speculation, 
then  common  enough  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
but  which  our  forefathers,  had  they  known  it,  would  have 
held  to  be  a  deadlier  crime  than  that  stigmatized  by  the 
scarlet  letter.  In  her  lonesome  cottage,  by  the  sea-shore, 
thoughts  visited  her,  such  as  dared  to  enter  no  other 
dwelling  in  New  England ;  shadowy  guests,  that  would 
<iave  been  as  perilous  as  demons  to  their  entertainer, 
could  th^y  have  been  seen  so  much  ar  knocking  at  he/ 
,ioor. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  persons  who  speculate  the  most 
boldly  often  conform  with  the  most  perfect  quietude  to 


ANOTHER    VIEW    OF    HESTEK.  19) 

the  external  regulations  of  society.  The  thought  suffices 
them,  without  investing  itself  in  the  flesh  and  blood  of 
action.  So  it  seemed  to  be  with  Hester.  Yet,  had  little 
Pearl  never  come  to  her  from  the  spiritual  world,  it  might 
have  been  far  otherwise.  Then,  she  might  have  come 
down  to  us  in  history,  hand  in  hand  with  Ann  Hutchin- 
son,  as  ihe  foundress  of  a'  religious  sect.  She  might, 
in  one  of  her  phases,  have  been  a  prophetess.  Sh« 
might,  and  not  improbably  would,  have  suffered  death 
from  the  stern  tribunals  of  the  period,  for  attempting  to 
undermine  the  foundations  of  the  Puritan  establishment. 
But,  in  the  education  of  her  child,  the  mother's  enthusi 
asm  of  thought  had  something  to  wreak  itself  upon. 
Providence,  in  the  person  of  this  little  girl,  had-assigned 
to  Hester's  charge  the  germ  and  blossom  of  womanhood, 
to  be  cherished  and  developed  amid  a  host  of  difficulties. 
Everything  was  against  her.  The  world  was  hostile. 
The  child's  own  nature  had  something  wrong  in  it, 
which  continually  betokened  that  she  had  been  born 
amiss,  —  the  effluence  of  her  mother's  lawless  passion, 
—  and  often  impelled  Hester  to  ask,  in  bitterness  of 
heart,  whether  it  were  for  ill  or  good  that  the  poor  little 
creature  had  been  born  at  all. 

Indeed,  the  same  dark  question  often  rose  into  her 
mind,  with  reference  to  the  whole  race  of  womanhood. 
Was  existence  worth  accepting,  even  to  the  happiest 
among  them  ?  As  concerned  her  own  individual  exist 
ence,  she  had  long  ago  decided  in  the  negative,  and  dis 
missed  the  point  as  settled.  A  tendency  to  speculation, 
though  it  may  keep  woman  quiet,  as  it  does  man,  yet 
makes  her  sad  She  discerns,  it  may  be,  such  a  hope- 
ess  ta?k  before  her.  ^Asjijfirst  stpp,  the  wV)ol& 


'92  THE   SCARLET  LETTER 

of  society  ii  to  be  J  )rn  down^arxd-bttilt  up  anew.  Then, 
the  very  nature  of  the  opposite  sex,  or  its.  long  hereditary 
(obit;  whichJias  become-like  jnature,  is  to  be  essentially 
-jnpjdifiedj ^before  woman  can  be  allowed  to  assume  what 
.jseems  a  fair  and  suitable  position.  .Finally,  all  othei 
difficulties  being  obviated,  woman  cannot  take  advantage 
of  these  preliminary  reforms,  unlilshe  herself  shall  have 
Jiodergone^a  still  mightier  change;  in  which,  perhap, 
the  ethereal  essence,  wherein  she  has  her  truest  life,  will 
b^Jb^n^jicnja^  never  overcomes 

these  problems  by  any  exercise  of  thought.  They  are 
not  to  be  solved,  or  only  in  one  way.  If  her  heart  chance 
to  come  uppermost,  they  vanish.  Thus,  Hester  Prynne, 
whose  heart  had  lost  its  regular  and  healthy  throb,  wan 
dered  without  a  clew  in  the  dark  labyrinth  of  mind;  now 
turned  aside  by  an  insurmountable  precipice ;  now  start 
ing  back  from  a  deep  chasm.  There  was  wild  and 
ghastly  scenery  all  around  her,  and  a  home  a^d  comfort 
nowhere.  At  times,  a  fearful  doubt  strove  to  possess  hei 
soul,  whether  it  were  not  better  to  send  Pearl  it  once  to 
heaven,  and  go  herself  to  such  futurity  as  Eternal  Jus 
tice  should  provide. 

The  scarlet  letter  had  not  done  its  office. 
Now,  however,  her  interview  with  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dimmesdale,  on  the  night  of  his  vigil,  had  given  her  a 
new  theme  of  reflection,  and  held  up  to  her  an__pbj£ct 
that  appeared  worthy -of  any  exertion- andjsj^rifice  for  its 
attainment.  She  had  witnessed  the  intense  misery  U-- 
neath  which  the  minister  struggled,  or,  to  speak  more 
accurately,  had  ceased  to  struggle.  She  saw  that  he 
stood  on  the  verge  of  lunacy,  if  he  had  not  already 
stepped  arross  it.  It  was  impossible  to  doubt,  that  what 


ANOTHER    VIEW    OP    HESTER.  193 

ever  painful  efficacy  there  might  be  in  the  secret  sting 
of  remorse,  a  deadlier  venom  had  been  infused  into  it  by 
the  hand  that  proffered  relief.  A  secret  enemy  had  beon 
continually  by  his  side,  under  the  semblance  of  a  friend 
and  helper,  and  had  availed  himself  of  the  opportunities 
thus  afforded  for  tampering  with  the  delicate  springs  of 
Mr.  Dimmesdale's  nature.  Hester  could  not  but  ask 
herself,  whether  there  had  not  originally  been  a  defect 
ol  truth,  courage  and  loyalty,  on  her  own  part,  in  allow 
mg  the  minister  to  be  thrown  into  a  position  where  so 
much  evil  was  to  be  foreboded,  and  nothing  auspicious  to 
be  hoped.  Her.  only  justification  lay  in  the  fact,  that  she 
had  been  able  to  discern  no  method  of  rescuing  him  from 
a  blacker  ruin  than  had  overwhelmed  herself,  except  by 
acquiescing  in  Itoger  Chillingworth's  scheme  of  disguise. 
(Jnder  that  impulse,  she  had  made  her  choice,  and  had 
chosen,  as  it  now  appeared,  the  more  wretched  alterna 
tive  of  the  two.  She  determined  to  redeem  her  error, 
so  far  as  it  might  yet  be  possible.  Strengthened  by  years 
of  hard  and  solemn  trial,  she  felt  herself  no  longer  so 
inadequate  to  cope  with  Koger  Chillingworth  as  on  that 
night,  abased  by  sin,  and  half  maddened  by  the  igno 
miny  that  was  still  new,  when  they  had  talked  together 
in  the  prison-chamber.  She  had  climbed  her  way, 
since  then,  to  a  higher  point.  The  old  man,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  brought  himself  nearer  to  her  level,  or 
perhaps  below  it,  by  the  revenge  which  he  had  stooped 
for. 

In  fine,  Hester  Prynne  resolved  to  meet  her  fbrmei 

husband,  and  do  what  might  be  in  her  power  for  the 

rescue  of  tr  e  victim  on  whom  he  had  so  evidentfy  set 

his  gripe.     Th?  occasion  was  not   long  to  seek. 

13 


194  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

afternoon,  walking  with  Pearl  in  a  retired  part  of  the 
peninsula,  she  beheld  the  old  physician,  with  a  basket 
on  one  arm,  and  a  staff  in  the  other  hand,  stooping  along 
the  ground,  in  quest  of  roots  and  herbs  to  concoct  hw 
medicines  withal. 


HESTEE   AND   THE    PHYSICIAN.  1U3 


XIV. 

HESTER  AND  THE  PHYSICIAN. 

HESTER  bade  little  Pearl  run  down  to  the  margin  of 
the  water,  and  play  with  the  shells  and  tangled  sea 
weed,  until  she  should  ha;e  talked  awhile  with  yonder 
gatherer  of  herbs.  So  the  child  flew  away  like  a 
bird,  and,  making  bare  her  small  white  feet,  went  pat- 
wring  along  the  moist  margin  of  the  sea.  Here  and 
there  she  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  peeped  curiously 
into  a  pool,  left  by  the  retiring  tide  as  a  mirror  for 
Pearl  to  see  her  face  in.  Forth  peeped  at  her,  out 
of  the  pool,  with  dark,  glistening  curls  around  hei 
tiead,  and  an  elf-smile  in  her  eyes,  the  image  of  a 
little  maid,  whom  Pearl,  having  no  other  playmate, 
invited  to  take  her  hand,  and  run  a  race  with  her. 
But  the  visionary  little  maid,  on  her  part,  beckoned 
likewise,  as  if  to  say,  — "  This  is  a  better  place ! 
Come  thou  into  the  pool!"  And  Pearl,  stepping  in, 
mid-leg  deep,  beheld  her  own  white  feet  at  the  bottom ; 
while,  out  of  a  still  lower  depth,  came  the  gleam  of  a 
kind  of  fragmentary  smile,  floating  to  and  fro  in  the 
agitated  water. 

Meanwhile,  her  mother  had  accosted  the  physician. 

"  J  would  speak  a  word  with  you,"  said  she,  — "  a 
word  that  concerns  us  much." 

"Alia!  ana  is  it  Mistress  Hester  that  has  a  word 
Cor  old  Roger  Chillingworth  ? "  answered  he,  raising 
himself  from  his  stooping  posture.  "With  all  my 


196  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

heart  i  Why,  Mistress,  I  hear  good  tidings  of  you 
on  all  hands !  No  longer  ago  than  yester-eve,  a  magis 
trate,  a  wise  and  godly  man,  was  discoursing  of  youi 
affairs,  Mistress  Hester,  and  whispered  me  that  there 
had  been  question  concerning  you  in  the  council 
it  was  debated  whether  or  no,  with  safety  to  the  com 
mon  weal,  yonder  scarlet  letter  might  be  taken  off  youi 
bosom.  On  my  life,  Hester,  I  made  my  entreaty  to  the 
worshipful  magistrate  that  it  might  be  done  forth 
with  ! " 

"It .lies  not  in  the  pleasure  of  the  magistrates  to  take 
off  this  badge,"  calmly  replied  Hester.  "  Were  I 
worthy  to  be  quit  of  it,  it  would  fall  away  of  its  own 
nature,  or  be  transformed  into  something  that  should 
speak  a  different  purport." 

"  Nay,  then,  wear  it,  if  it  suit  you  better,"  rejoined 
he.  "  A  woman  must  needs  follow  her  own  fancy, 
touching  the  adornment  of  her  person.  The  letter  is 
gayly  embroidered,  and  shows  right  bravely  on  your 
bosom ! " 

All  this  while,  Hester  had  been  looking  steadily  at 
the  old  man,  and  was  shocked,  as  well  as  wonder- 
smitten,  to  discern  what  a  change  had  been  wrought 
upon  him  within  the  past  seven  years.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  he  had  grown  older ;  for  though  the  traces  of 
advancing  life  were  visible,  he  bore  his  age  well,  and 
seemed  to  retain  a  wiry  vigor  and  alertness.  But  the 
former  aspect  of  an  intellectual  and  studious  man.  calm 
and  quiet,  which  was  what  she  best  remembered  in 
him,  had  altogether  vanished,  and  been  succeeded 
by  an  eager,  searching,  almost  fierce,  yet  carefully 
guarded  look.  It  seemed  tc  be  his  wisli  and  purpose  <i 


HESTKR   AND   THE    PHYSIC  LAJI.  19*7 

-nask  this  sxpression  with  a  smile ;  but  the  lattei 
played  him  false,  and  flickered  over  his  visage  so 
derisively,  that  the  spectator  could  see  his  blackness 
all  the  better  for  it.  Ever  and  anon,  too,  there  came 
a  glare  of  red  light  out  of  his  eyes ;  as  if  the  ol^ 
man's  soul  were  on  fire,  and  kept  on  smouldering 
uuskily  within  his  breast,  until,  by  some  casual  puff 
of  passion,  it  was  blown  into  a  momentary  flame.  This 
he  repressed,  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  strove  to  look 
as  if  nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened. 

In  a  word,  old  Roger  Chillingworth  was  a  striking 
evidence  of  man's  faculty  of  transforming  himself  into 
a  devil,  if  he  will  only,  for  a  reasonable  space  of 
time,  undertake  a  devil's  office.  This  unhappy  person 
had  effected  such  a  transformation,  by  devoting  himself, 
for  seven  years,  to  the  constant  analysis  of  a  heart  full 
of  torture,  and  deriving  his  enjoyment  thence,  and 
adding  fuel  to  those  fiery  tortures  which  he  analyzed 
and  gloated  over. 

The  scarlet  letter  burned  on  Hester  Prynne's  bosom. 
Here  was  another  ruin,  the  responsibility  of  which  came 
partly  home  to  her. 

"What  see  you  in  my  face,"  asked  the  physician, 
"  that  you  look  at  it  so  earnestly  ?  " 

"  Something  that  would  make  me  weep,  if  there  were 
any  tears  bitter  enough  for  it,"  answered  she.  "  But 
let  it  pass  !  It  is  of  yonder  miserable  man  that  I  vo-1 1 
speak." 

"And  what  of  him?"  cried  Roger  Chillingworth, 
eagerly,  as  if  he  bved  the  topic,  and  were  glad  of  an 
opportunity  to  discuss  it  with  the  omy  person  of  whom 
he  crild  make  a  confidant.  "Not  to  h;de  tbe  tru'h 


198  TRB    SCARLET    LfcTTEft. 

Mistress  Hester,  my  thoughts  happen  just  no\v  to  w 
busy  with  the  gentleman.  Sc  speak  freely ;  and  I  wil* 
make  answer." 

"  When  we  last  spake  together,"  said  Hester,  "  now 
seven  years  ago,  it  was  your  pleasure  to  extort  a 
promise  of  secrecy,  as  touching  the  former  relation 
betwixt  yourself  and  me.  As  the  life  and  good  fame 
of  yonder  man  were  in  your  hands,  there  seemed  no 
choice  to  me,  save  to  be  silent,  in  accordance  will? 
your  behest.  Yet  it  was  not  without  heavy  misgiv 
ings  that  I  thus  bound  myself;  for,  having  cast  off 
all  duty  towards  other  human  beings,  there  remained  a 
duty  towards  him;  and  something  whispered  me  that 
I  was  betraying  it,  in  pledging  myself  to  keep  your 
counsel.  Since  that  day,  no  man  is  so  near  to  him 
as  you.  You  tread  behind  his  every  footstep.  You 
are  beside  him,  sleeping  and  waking.  You  search 
his  thoughts.  You  burrow  and  rankle  in  his  heart ' 
Your  clutch  is  on  his  life,  and  you  cause  him  to 
die  daily  a  living  death;  and  still  he  knows  you 
not.  In  permitting  this,  I  have  surely  acted  a  false 
part  by  the  only  man  to  whom  the  power  was  left  ir.e 
to  be  true ! " 

"What  choice  had  you?"  asked  Roger  Chilling- 
worth.  "  My  finger,  pointed  at  this  man,  would  ha  e 
hurled  him  from  his  pulpit  into  a  dungeon,  —  thence, 
peradventure,  to  the  gallows  ! " 

*'  It  had  been  better  so ! "  said  Hester  Prynne. 

t;  What  evil  have  I  done  the  man  ? "  asked  Rogei 
^hillingworth  again.  "I  tell  thee,  Hester  Prynne, 
the  richest  fee  that  ever  physician  earned  from  monarch 
could  not  have  bought  such  care  as  I  have  wasted 


HESTER   AND    THE    PHYSICIAN.  199 

on  tnis  miserable  priest!  But  for  my  aid,  his  life 
would  have  burned  away  in  torments,  within  the  firs* 
two  years  after  the  perpetration  of  his  crime  am 
thine.  For,  Hester,  his  spirit  lacked  the  strength  that 
could  have  borne  up,  as  thine  has,  beneath  a  burden  like 
thy  scarlet  letter.  O,  I  could  reveal  a  goodly  secret ! 
But  enough !  What  art  can  do,  I  have  exhausted  on 
him.  That  he  now  breathes,  and  creeps  about  on  earth, 
is  owing  all  to  me ! " 

"  Better  he  had  died  at  once ! "  said  Hester  Prynne. 

"  Yea,  woman,  thou  sayest  truly ! "  cried  old  Roger 
Chillingworth,  letting  the  lurid  fire  of  his  heart  blaze 
out  before  her  eyes.  "  Better  had  he  died  at  once '. 
Never  did  mortal  suffer  what  this  man  has  suffered. 
And  all,  all,  in  the  sight  of  bis  worst  enemy!  He 
has  been  conscious  of  me.  He  hits  felt  an  influence 
dwelling  always  upon  him  like  a  curse.  He  knew, 
by  some  spiritual  sense,  —  for  the  Creator  never  made 
another  being  so  sensitive  as  this,  —  he  knew  that 
no  friendly  hand  was  pulling  at  his  heart-strings,  and 
that  an  eye  was  looking  curiously  into  him,  which 
sought  only  evil,  and  found  it.  But  he  knew  not 
that  the  eye  and  hand  were  mine  !  With_jhe  super 
stition  comrnon_Jo.  Jiis  .brotherhood,  he  fancied  himself 
given  over_Ja_a— fieadj_Jo  be  tortured  with  frightful 
dreams,  and  desperate  thoughts,  the  sting  of  remorse, 
and  despair  of  pardon;  as  a  foretaste  of  what  awaits 
him  beyond  the  grave.  But  it  was  the  constant  shadow 
of  my  presence  !  —  the  closest  propinquity  of  the  man 
whom  he  had  most  vilely  wronged !  —  and  who  hat 
grown  to  exist  only  by  this  perpetual  poison  of  tht 
direst  revenge!  Tea,  indeed!  —  he  did  not  err!  — 


200  THE  SCMULET  LETTER. 

there  was  a  fiend  at  his  elbow !  A  moTtal  man,  with 
once  a  human  heart,  has  become  a  fiend  for  his  especial 
torment ! " 

The  unfortunate  physician,  while  uttering  these 
words,  lifted  his  hands  with  a  look  of  horror,  as  if  he 
had  beheld  some  frightful  shape,  which  he  could  not 
recognize,  usurping  the  place  of  his  own  image  in  a 
glass.  It  was  one  of  those  moments — which  sometimes 
occur  only  at  the  interval  of  years  —  when  a  man's 
moral  aspect  is  faithfully  revealed  to  his  mind's  eye. 
Not  improbably,  he  had  never  before  viewed  himself  as 
he  did  now. 

"  Hast  thou  not  tortured  him  enough  ? "  said  Hester, 
noticing  the  old  man's  look.  "  Has  he  not  paid  thee 
all?" 

"  No !  —  no !  —  He  has  but  increased  the  debt ! " 
answered  the  physician;  and  as  he  proceeded,  his 
manner  lost  its  fiercer  characteristics,  and  subsided 
into  gloom.  "  Dost  thou  remember  me,  Hester,  as  J 
was  nine  years  agone  ?  Even  then,  I  was  in  the 
autumn  of  my  days,  nor  was  it  the  early  autumn. 
But  all  my  life  had  been  made  up  of  earnest,  studious, 
thoughtful,  quiet  years,  bestowed  faithfully  for  the  in 
crease  of  mine  own  knowledge,  and  faithfully,  too, 
though  this  latter  object  was  but  casual  to  the  other, 
—  faithfully  for  the  advancement  of  human  welfare. 
NTo  life  had  been  more  peaceful  and  innocent  than 
nine  ;  few  lives  so  rich  with  benefits  conferred.  Dost 
Jiou  remember  me  ?  Was  I  not,  though  you  might 
deem  me  cold,  nevertheless  a  man  thoughtful  foi 
others,  craving  little  for  himself, -— kind,  true,  just,  and 


HESPER    A^TD   THE    PHYSICIAN.  201 

yf  constant,  if  not  warm  affections  ?     Was  I  not  all 

this?" 

"  All  this,  and  more,"  eaid  Hester. 

"And  what  am  I  now7"  demanded  he,  looking 
into  her  face,  and  permitting  the  whole  evil  within 
him  to  be  written  on  his  features.  "  I  have  already 
told  thee  what  I  am  !  A  fiend !  Who  made  mr 
so  ?" 

"  It  was  myself!"  cried  Hester,  shuddering.  "  It  was 
I,  not  less  than  he.  Why  hast  thou  not  avenged  thyself 
on  me  ?  " 

"  I  have  left  thee  to  the  scarlet  letter,"  replied  Roger 
Chillingworth.  "  If  that  have  not  avenged  me,  I  can  do 
no  more ! " 

He  laid  his  finger  on  it,  with  a  smile. 

"  It  has  avenged  thee  ! "  answered  Hester  Prynne. 

"  I  judged  no  less,"  said  the  physician.  "  And  now, 
what  wouldst  thou  with  me  touching  this  man  ? " 

"  I  must  reveal  the  secret,"  answered  Hester,  firmly 
"  He  must  discern  thee  in  thy  true  character.  Whal 
may  be  the  result,  I  know  not.  But  this  long  debt 
of  confidence,  due  from  me  to  him,  whose  bane  and 
ruin  I  have  been,  shall  at  length  be  paid.  So  far 
as  concerns  the  overthrow  or  preservation  of  his  fail 
fame  and  his  earthly  state,  and  perchance  his  life 
he  is  in  thy  hands.  Nor  do  I,  —  whom  the  scarlet 
letter  has  disciplined  to  truth,  though  it  be  the  truth 
of  red-hot  iron,  entering  into  the  soul,  —  nor  do  I  per 
ceive  such  advantage  in  his  living  any  longer  a  lifv 
of  ghastly  emptiness,  that  I  shall  stoop  to  implore  thy 
mercy.  Do  with  him  as  thou  wilt!  There  is  no  goo^ 
for  him,  —  no  good  for  me,  —  no  good  for  thee  !  Then 


202  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

is  no  good  for  little  Pearl !  There  is  no  path  to  guide 
us  out  of  this  dismal  maze ! " 

'•Woman,  I  could  well-nigh  pitythee!"  said  Rogei 
Chillingworth,  unable  to  restrain  a  thrill  of  admiration 
too;  for  there  was  a  quality  almost  majestic  in  the 
despair  which  she  expressed.  "  Thou  hadst  great 
elements.  Peradventure,  hadst  thou  met  earlier  with 
a  better  love  than  mine,  this  evil  had  not  been.  1 
pity  thee,  for  the  good  that  has  been  wasted  in  thy 
nature ! " 

"  And  I  thee,"  answered  Hester  Prynne,  "  for  the 
hatred  that  has  transformed  a  wise  and  just  man  to 
a  fiend!  Wilt  thou  yet  purge  it  out  of  thee,  and  be 
once  more  human?  If  not  for  his  sake,  then  doubly 
/or  thine  own !  Forgive,  and  leave  his  further  retribu- 
non  to  the  Power  that  claims  it!  I  said,  but  now, 
that  there  could  be  no  good  event  for  him,  or  thee, 
.>r  me,  who  are  here  wandering  together  in  this  gloomy 
maze  of  evil,  and  stumbling,  at  every  step,  over  the 
guilt  wherewith  we  have  strewn  our  path.  It  ps  not  so! 
There  might  be  good  for  thee,  and  thee  alone,  since 
thou  hast  been  deeply  wronged,  and  hast  it  at  thy  will  to 
pardon.  Wilt  thou  give  up  that  only  privilege  ?  Wilt 
thou  Deject  that  priceless  benefit  ? " 

"  Peace,  Hester,  peace ! "  replied  the  old  man,  with 
gloomy  sternness.  "It  is  not  granted  me  to  pardon. 
I  have  no  such  power  as  thou  tellest  me  of.  My  old 
faith,  long  forgotten,  comes  back  to  me,  and  explains  all 
that  we  do,  and  all  we  suffer.  By  thy  first  step  awry 
thou  didst  plant  the  germ  of  evil ;  but  since  that  mo 
ment,  it  has  all  been  a  dark  necessity.  . Yfi_ihal  Jiaie 
ivronged  me  arejnpj^iftfal,  save  in  a  kind  of -typical  ill* 


HESTF.R    A&D    THL    PHYSICIAN.  203 

sion ;  neither  am  I  fiend -like,  who  have  snatched  a 
fiend's  office  from  his  hands.  It  is  our  fate.  Let  the 
black  flower  blossom  as  it  may !  Now  go  thy  ways,  and 
deal  as  thou  wilt  with  yonder  man." 

He  waived  his  hand,  and  betook  himself  again  to  bu 
employment  of  gathering  herbs. 


THB   SCARLET   LETTXk. 


XV. 

HESTER  AND   PEARL 

So  Roger  Chillingworth — a  deformed  old  figure, 
with  a  face  that  haunted  men's  memories  longer  than 
they  liked  —  took  leave  of  Hester  Prynno,  and  went 
stooping  away  along  the  earth.  He  gathered  here  and 
there  an  herb,  or  grubbed  up  a  root,  and  put  it  into  the 
basket  on  his  arm.  His  gray  beard  almost  touched  the 
ground,  as  he  crept  onward.  Hester  gazed  after  him 
a  little  while,  looking  with  a  half  fantastic  curio? Ay  to 
uee  whether  the  tender  grass  of  early  spring  wou  )d  not 
be  blighted  beneath  him,  and  show  the  wavering  track 
of  his  footsteps,  sere  and  brown,  across  its  cheerful 
verdure.  She  wondered  what  sort  of  herbs  they  were, 
which  the  old  man  was  so  sedulous  to  gather.  Would 
not  the  earth,  quickened  to  an  evil  purpose  by  the  sym 
pathy  of  his  eye,  greet  him  with  poisonous  shrubs,  of 
species  hitherto  unknown,  that  would  start  up  under  his 
fingers  ?  Or  might  it  suffice  him,  that  every  wholesome 
growth  should  be  converted  into  something  deleterious 
and  malignant  at  his  touch  ?  Did  the  sun,  which  shone 
so  brightly  everywhere  else,  really  fall  upon  him  ?  Oi 
was  there,  as  it  rather  seemed,  a  circle  of  ominous 
shadow  moving  along  with  his  deformity,  whichever 
way  he  turned  himself?  And  whither  was  b*.:  now 
going?  Would  he  not  suddenly  sink  into  the  earth, 
leaving-  a  barren  and  blasted  spot,  where,  in  due  course 
Df  time  would  be  seen  deadly  nightshade,  dogwoo.l  hen 


HESTER    AND    PEARL.  Zl'O 

ban*,  and  whatever  else  of  vegetable  wickedness  tue  cli 
mate  could  produce,  all  flourishing  with  hideous  luxu 
riance  ?  Or  would  he  spread  bat's  wings  and  flee  away, 
looking  so  much  the  uglier,  the  higher  he  rose  towards 
heaven  ? 

"  Be  it  sin  or  no,"  said  Hester  Prynne,  bitterly,  as  she 
still  gazed  after  him,  "  I  hate  the  man  !  " 

She  upbraided  herself  for  the  sentiment,  but  could  not 
overcome  or  lessen  it.  Attempting  to  do  so,  she  thought 
of  those  long-past  days,  in  a  distant  land,  when  he  used 
to  emerge  at  eventide  from  the  seclusion  of  his  study 
and  sit  down  in  the  fire-light  of  their  home,  and  in  the 
light  of  her  nuptial  smile.  He  needed  to  bask  himselt 
in  that  smile,  he  said,  in  order  that  the  chill  of  so  many 
lonely  hours  among  his  books  might  be  taken  off  the 
scholar's  heart.  Such  scenes  had  once  appeared  not  other 
wise  than  happy,  but  now,  as  viewed  through  the  dismal 
medium  of  her  subsequent  life,  they  classed  themselves 
among  her  ugliest  remembrances.  She  marvelled  how 
such  scenes  could  have  been!  She  marvelled  how  she 
could  ever  have  been  wrought  upon  to  marry  him !  She 
deemed  it  her  crime  most  to  be  repented  of,  that  she  had 
ever  endured,  and  reciprocated,  the  lukewarm  grasp  of 
his  hand,  and  had  suffered  the  smile  of  her  lips  and  eyes 
to  mingle  and  melt  into  his  own.  And  it  seemed  a  foulei 
offence  committed  by  Roger  Chillingworth,  than  an} 
which  had  since  been  done  him,  that,  in  the  time  wher 
her  heart  knew  no  better,  he  had  persuaded  her  to  fane) 
herself  happy  by  his  side. 

"  Yes,  I  hate  him ! "  repeated  Hester,  more  bitter!) 
than  be  fore.  "  He  betrayed  me  !  He  has  done  me  wore* 
than  I  did  him!  " 


206  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

Let  men  tumble  to  win  the  hand  of  woman, 
they  win  along  with  it  the  utmost  passion  of  her  heart ! 
Else  it  may  be  their  miserable  fortune,  as  it  was  Roger 
ChillingworthX  when  some  mightier  touch  than  their 
own  may  have  awakened  all  her  sensibilities,  to  be  re 
proached  even  for  the  calm  content,  the  marble  image  of 
happiness,  which  they  will  have  imposed  upon  her  as  the 
warm  reality.  But  Hester  ought  long  ago  to  have  done 
with  this  injustice.  What  did  it  betoken  ?  Had  seven 
long  years,  under  the  torture  of  the  scarlet  letter,  in 
flicted  so  much  of  misery,  and  wrought  out  no  repeat- 
ance  ? 

The  emotions  of  that  brief  space,  while  she  stood  gaz 
ing  after  the  crooked  figure  of  old  Roger  Chillingworth, 
Ihrew  a  dark  light  on  Hester's  state  of  mind,  revealing 
much  that  she  might  not  otherwise  have  acknowledged 
to  herself. 

He  being  gone,  she  summoned  back  her  child. 

"  Pearl !     Little  Pearl !     Where  are  you  ?  " 

Pearl,  whose  activity  of  spirit  never  flagged,  had  been 
at  no  loss  for  amusement  while  her  mother  talked  with 
the  old  gatherer  of  herbs.  At  first,  as  already  told,  she 
had  flirted  fancifully  with  her  own  image  in  a  pool  of 
water,  beckoning  the  phantom  forth,  and  —  as  it  declined 
to  venture  —  seeking  a  passage  for  herself  into  its  sphere 
of  impalpable  earth  and  unattainable  sky.  Soon  finding, 
however,  that  either  she  or  the  image  was  unreal,  she 
turned  elsewhere  for  better  pastime.  She  made  little 
boats  out  of  birch-bark,  and  freighted  them  with  snail- 
shells,  and  sent  out  more  ventures  on  the  mighty  deep 
than  any  merchant  in  New  England ;  but  the  larger  part 
of  them  foundered  near  the  shore.  She  seized  a  live 


HESTER    AND   PEA.RL.  207 

horse-shoe  by  the  tail,  and  made  prize  of  several  five- 
fmgers,  and  laid  out  a  jelly-fish  to  melt  in  the  warm  sun. 
Then  she  took  up  the  white  foam,  that  streaked  the  line 
of  the  advancing  tide,  and  threw  it  upon  the  breeze, 
scampering  after  it,  with  winged  footsteps,  to  catch  the 
great  snow-flakes  ere  they  fell.  Perceiving  a  flock  of 
beach-birds,  that  fed  and  fluttered  along  the  shore,  the 
naughty  child  picked  up  her  apron  full  of  pebbles,  and 
creeping  from  rock  to  rock  after  these  small  sea-fowl,  dis 
played  remarkable  dexterity  in  pelting  them.  One  little 
gray  bird,  with  a  white  breast,  Pearl  was  almost  sure, 
had  been  hit  by  a  pebble,  and  fluttered  away  with  a 
broken  wing.  But  then  the  elf-child  sighed,  and  gave 
up  her  sport ;  because  it  grieved  her  to  have  done  harm 
to  a  little  being  that  was  as  wild,  as  the  sea-breeze,  or  as 
wild  as  Pearl  herself. 

Her  final  employment  was  to  gather  sea-weed,  of 
various  kinds,  and  make  herself  a  scarf,  or  mantle,  and 
a  head-dress,  and  thus  assume  the  aspect  of  a  little  mer 
maid.  She  inherited  her  mother's  gift  for  devising  drapery 
and  costume.  As  the  last  touch  to  her  mermaid's  garb, 
Pearl  took  some  eel-grass,  and  imitated,  as  bgst  she  could, 
on  her  own  bosom,  the  decoration  with  which  she  was  so 
familiar  on  her  mother's.  A  letter,  —  the  letter  A,  —  but 
freshly  green,  instead  of  scarlet!  The  child  bent  he? 
chin  upon  her  breast,  and  contemplated  this  device  with 
strange  interest ;  even  as  \f  the  one  only  thing  for  which 
she  had  been  sent  into  the  world  was  to  make  out  its 
hidden  import. 

"  I  wonder  if  mother  will  asif  me  what  it  means  ? " 
thought  Pearl. 

Just  then,  she  heard  her  mother's  voice,  and  flitting 


£08  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

ftlong  as  lightly  as  one  of  the  little  sea-birds,  appea  ed 
before  Hester  Prynne,  dancing,  laughing,  and  point  \ng 
her  finger  to  the  ornament  upon  her  bosom. 

"  My  little  Pearl,"  said  Hester,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "the  green  letter,  and  on  thy  childish  bosom,  has 
no  purport.  But  dost  thou  know,  my  child,  what  this 
letter  means  which  thy  mother  is  doomed  to  wear  ? " 

''  Yes,  mother,"  said  the  child.  "  It  is  the  great  letter 
A.  Thou  hast  taught  me  in  the  horn-book." 

Hester  looked  steadily  into  her  little  face ;  but,  though 
there  was  that  singular  expression  which  she  had  so  often 
remarked  in  her  black  eyes,  she  could  not  satisfy  herself 
whether  Pearl  really  attached  any  meaning  to  the  symbol. 
She  felt  a  morbid  desire  to  ascertain  the  point. 

"  Dost  thou  know,  child,  wherefore  thy  mother  wears 
this  letter?" 

"  Truly  do  I !  "  answered  Pearl,  looking  brightly  into 
her  mother's  face.  "It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  the 
minister  keeps  his  hand  over  his  heart !  " 

"And  what  reason  is  that?  "  asked  Hester,  half  smil 
ing  at  the  absurd  incongruity  of  the  child's  observation  , 
but,  on  second  thoughts,  turning  pale.  "  What  has  the 
letter  to  do  with  any  heart,  save  mine  ?  " 

"  Nay,  mother,  I  have  told  all  I  know,"  said  Pearl, 
more  seriously  than  she  was  wont  to  speak.  "  Ask  yon 
der  old  man  whom  thou  hast  been  talking  with  !  It  may 
be  he  can  tell.  But  in  good  earnest  now,  mother  dear,  what 
does  this  scarlet  letter  mean  ?  —  and  why  dost  thou  weal 
it  on  thy  bosom  ?  —  and  why  does  the  minister  keep  his 
hand  over  his  heart  ? " 

She  took  her  mother's  hand  in  both  her  own,  and 
gazed  into  her  eyes  with  an  earnestness  that  was  seldom 


HESTER    AND   PEARL.  209 

seen  iii  her  vild  and  capricious  character.  The  thought 
occurred  to  Hester,  that  the  child  might  really  be  seeking 
to  approach  her  with  child-like  confidence,  and  doing 
what  she  could,  and  as  intelligently  as  she  knew  how,  to 
establish  a  meeting-point  of  sympathy.  It  showed  Pearl 
in  an  unwonted  aspect.  Heretofore,  the  mother,  while 
loving  her  child  with  the  intensity  of  a  sole  affection,  had 
schooled  herself  to  hope  for  little  other  return  than  the 
waywardness  of  an  April  breeze  ;  which  spends  its  time 
in  airy  sport,  and  has  its  gusts  of  inexplicable  passion,  and 
is  petulant  in  its  best  of  moods,  and  chills  oftener  than 
caresses  you,  when  you  take  it  to  your  bosom ;  in  requital 
of  which  misdemeanors,  it  will  sometimes,  of  its  own 
vague  purpose,  kiss  your  cheek  with  a  kind  of  doubtful 
tenderness,  and  play  gently  with  your  hair,  and  then 
begone  about  its  other  idle  business,  leaving  a  dreamy 
pleasure  at  your  heart.  And  this,  moreover,  was  a  moth 
er's  estimate  of  the  child's  disposition.  Any  other  ob 
server  might  have  seen  few  but  unamiable  traits,  and  have 
given  them  a  far  darker  coloring.  But  now  the  idea 
came  strongly  into  Hester's  mind,  that  Pearl,  with  her 
remarkable  precocity  and  acuteness,  might  already  have 
approached  the  age  when  she  could  be  made  a  friend, 
and  intrusted  with  as  much  of  her  mother's  sorrows  as 
could  be  imparted,  without  irreverence  either  to  the  parent 
W  the  child.  In  the  little  chaos  of  Pearl's  character, 
there  might  be  seen  emerging  —  and  could  have  been, 
from  the  very  first  —  the  steadfast  principles  of  an  un 
flinching  courage,  —  an  uncontrollable  will,  —  a  sturdy 
pride,  which  might  be  disciplined  into  self-respect,  —  and 
t  bitter  scorn  of  many  things,  which,  when  examined, 
might  be  found  to  have  the  taint  of  falsehood  in  them 
14 


210  THE    SCARLET    LETTfifc 

She  possessed  affections,  too,  though  hitherto  acrid  and 
disagreeable,  as  are  the  richest  flavors  of  unripe  fruit. 
With  all  these  sterling  attributes,  thought  He«ter,  the 
evil  which  she  inherited  from  her  mother  must  be  great 
indeed,  if  a  noble  woman  do  not  grow  out  of  this  elfish 
child. 

Pearl's  inevitable  tendency  to  hover  about  the  enigma 
of  the  scarlet  letter  seemed  an  innate  quality  of  hei 
being.  From  the  earliest  epoch  of  her  conscious  life,  she 
had  entered  upon  this  as  her  appointed  mission.  Hester 
had  often  fancied  that  Providence  had  a  design  of  justice 
and  retribution,  in  endowing  the  child  with  this  marked 
propensity  ;  but  never,  until  now,  had  she  bethought  her 
self  to  ask,  whether,  linked  with  that  design,  there  might 
not  likewise  be  a  purpose  of  mercy  and  beneficence.  If 
little  Pearl  were  entertained  with  faith  and  trust,  as  a 
spirit  messenger  no  less  than  an  earthly  child,  might  it 
i\ot  be  her  errand  to  soothe  away  the  sorrow  that  lay  cold 
in  her  mother's  heart,  and  converted  it  into  a  tomb  ?  — 
and  to  help  her  to  overcome  the  passion,  once  so  wild, 
and  even  yet  neither  dead  nor  asleep,  but  only  impris 
oned  within  the  same  tomb-like  heart  ? 

Such  were  some  of  the  thoughts  that  now  stirred  in 
Hester's  mind,  with  as  much  vivacity  of  impression  as 
if  ttay  had  actually  been  whispered  into  her  ear.  And 
them  was  little  Pearl,  all  this  while,  holding  her  mother's 
hand  in  both  her  own,  and  turning  her  face  upward, 
while  she  put  these  searching  questions,  once,  and  again, 
and  still  a  third  time. 

"What  does  the  letter  mean,  mother?  —  and  why 
Jost  thou  wear  it  ?  —  and  why  does  the  minister  keep  hi* 
Uand  over  his  heart  ?  " 


HESTER    AND    PEARL.  211 

"  What  shall  I  say  ? "  thought  Hester  to  herself. 
14  No  !  If  this  he  the  price  of  the  child's  sympathy,  1 
cannot  pay  it." 

Then  she  spoke  aloud. 

"  Silly  Pearl,"  said  she,  "  what  questions  are  there  ? 
There  are  many  things  in  this  world  that  a  child  must 
not  ask  about.  What  know  I  of  the  minister's  heart  ? 
And  as  for  the  scarlet  letter,  I  wear  it  for  the  sake  of 
:ts  gold  thread." 

In  all  the  seven  bygone  years,  Hester  Prynne  had 
never  before  been  false  to  the  symbol  on  her  bosom.  It 
may  be  that  it  was  the  talisman  of  a  stern  and  severe, 
but  yet  a  guardian  spirit,  who  now  forsook  her;  as 
recognizing  that,  in  spite  of  his  strict  watch  over  her 
heart,  some  new  evil  had  crept  into  it,  or  some  old  one 
had  never  been  expelled.  As  for  little  Pearl,  the  ear 
nestness  soon  passed  oul  of  her  face. 

But  the  child  did  not  see  fit  to  let  the  matter  drop. 
Two  or  three  times,  as  her  mother  and  she  went  home 
ward,  and  as  often  at  supper-time,  and  while  Hester  was 
putting  her  to  bed,  and  once  after  she  seemed  to  be  fairly 
asleep,  Pearl  looked  up,  with  mischief  gleaming  in  her 
black  eyes. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  what  does  the  scarlet  letter 
mean  ? " 

And  the  next  morning,  the  first  indication  the  child 
g-ave  of  being  awake  was  by  popping  up  her  head  from 
the  pillow,  and  making  that  other  inquiry,  which  she 
had  so  unaccountably  connected  with  her  investigation? 
about  the  scarlet  letter :  — 

"  Mother  !  —  Mother  !  —  Why  does  the  minister  keep 
his  hand  o\  er  his  heart  ?  " 


212  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

"  Hold  thy  tongue,  naughty  child ! "  answered  hei 
mother,  with  an  asperity  that  she  had  never  permitted 
to  herself  before.  "  Do  not  tease  me ;  else  I  shall  shut 
thee  into  the  dark  closet !  n 


A    FOREST   WALK. 


XVI. 

A  FOREST  WALK. 

HESTEK  PRYNNE  remained  constant  in  her  resolve  to 
make  known  to  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  at  whatever  risk  of 
present  pain  or  ulterior  consequences,  the  true  charac 
ter  of  the  man  who  had  crept  into  his  intimacy.  Foi 
several  days,  however,  she  vainly  sought  an  opportunity 
of  addressing  him  in  some  of  the  meditative  walks 
which  she  knew  him  to  he  in  the  habit  of  taking,  along 
the  shores  of  the  peninsula,  or  on  the  wooded  hills  of  the 
neighboring  country'.  There  would  have  been  no  scan- 
dal,  indeed,  nor  peril  to  the  holy  whiteness  of  the  cler 
gyman's  good  fame,  had  she  visited  him  in  his  own 
study ;  where  many  a  penitent,  ere  now,  had  confessed 
sins  of  perhaps  as  deep  a  dye  as  the  one  betokened  by  the 
scarlet  letter  But,  partly  that  she  dreaded  the  secret  or 
undisguised  interference  of  old  Roger  Chillingworth,  and 
partly  that  her  conscious  heart  imputed  suspicion  where 
none  could  have  been  felt,  and  partly  that  both  the  min 
ister  and  she  would  need  the  whole  wide  world  to  breathe 
in,  while  they  talked  together,  —  for  all  these  reasons, 
Hester  never  thought  of  meeting  him  in  any  narrower 
privacy  than  beneath  the  open  sky. 

At  last,  while  attending  in  a  sick-chamber,  whither 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  had  been  summoned  to 
mate  a  prayer,  she  learnt  that  he  had  gone,  the  day 
before,  to  visit  the  Apostle  Eliot,  among  his  Indian  con 
verts.  He  would  probably  return,  by  a  certain  hour,  ID 


214  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

the  afternoon  of  the  morrow.  Betimes,  therefore,  th« 
next  day,  Hester  took  little  Pearl,  —  who  was  necessa 
rily  the  companion  of  all  her  mother's  expeditions,  how- 
ever  inconvenient  her  presence,  —  and  set  forth. 

The  road,  after  the  two  wayfarers  had  crossed  from 
the  peninsula  to  the  mainland,  was  no  other  than  a  foot* 
path.  It  straggled  onward  into  the  mystery  of  the  pri 
meval  forest.  This  hemmed  it  in  so  narrowly,  and  stood 
so  black  and  dense  on  either  side,  and  disclosed  such 
imperfect  glimpses  of  the  sky  above,  that,  to  Hester's 
mind,  it  imaged  not  amiss  the  moral  wilderness  in  which 
she  had  so  long  been  wandering.  The  day  was  chill  and 
sombre.  Overhead  was  a  gay  expanse  of  cloud,  slightly 
stirred,  however,  by  a  breeze ;  so  that  a  gleam  of  nick 
ering  sunshine  might  now  and  then  be  seen  at  its  soli 
tary  play  along  the  path.  This  flitting  cheerfulness  was 
always  at  the  further  extremity  of  some  long  vista  through 
the  forest.  The  sportive  sunlight  —  feebly  sportive,  at 
best,  in  the  predominant  pensiveness  of  the  day  and 
scene  —  withdrew  itself  as  they  came  nigh,  and  left  the 
spots  where  it  had  danced  the  drearier,  because  they  had 
hoped  to  find  them  bright. 

"  Mother,"  said  little  Pearl,  "  the  sunshine  does  not 
love  you.  It  runs  away  and  hides  itself,  because  it  is 
afraid  of  something  on  your  bosom.  Now,  see  !  There 
it  is,  playing,  a  good  way  off.  Stand  you  here,  and  Ie1 
me  run  and  catch  it.  I  am  but  a  child.  It  will  not  flee 
from  me  ;  for  I  wear  nothing  on  my  bosom  yet !  " 

"  Nor  ever  will,  my  child,  I  hope,"  said  Hester. 

<l  And  why  not,  mother  ? "  asked  Pearl,  stopping  short, 
just  at  the  beginning  of  her  race.  "  Will  not  it  come  of 
ifa,  own  accord,  when  I  am  a  woman  grown ? " 


A    FOREST    WALK. 

"  Run  away,  child,"  answered  her  mother, "  and  catch 
the  sunshine  !  It  wiL  soon  be  gone." 

Pearl  set  forth,  at  a  great  pace,  and,  as  Hester  smiled 
to  perceive,  did  actually  catch  the  sunshine,  and  stood 
laughing  in  the  midst  of  it,  all  brightened  by  its  splen 
dor,  and  scintillating  with  the  vivacity  excited  by  rapid 
motion.  The  light  lingered  about  the  lonely  child,  as  if 
glad  of  such  a  playmate,  until  her  mother  had  drawn 
almost  nigh  enough  to  step  into  the  magic  circle  too. 

"  It  will  go  now,"  said  Pearl,  shaking  her  head. 

"  See  !  "  answered  Hester,  smiling.  "  Now  I  can 
stretch  out  my  hand,  and  grasp  some  of  it." 

As  she  attempted  to  do  so,  the  sunshine  vanished ; 
or,  toxjudge  from  the  bright  expression  that  was  dancing 
on  Pearl's  features,  her  mothei  could  have  fancied  that 
the  child  had  absorbed  it  into  herself,  and  would  give  it 
forth  again,  with  a  gleam  about  her  path,  as  they  should 
plunge  into  some  gloomier  shade.  There  was  no  other 
attribute  that  so  much  impressed  her  with  a  sense  of 
new  and  untransmitted  vigor  in  Pearl's  nature,  as  this 
never-failing  vivacity  of  spirits  ;  she  had  not  the  disease 
of  sadness,  which  almost  all  children,  in  these  latter 
days,  inherit,  with  the  scrofula,  from  the  troubles  of  their 
ancestors.  Perhaps  this  too  was  a  disease,  and  but  the 
reflex  of  the  wild  energy  with  which  Hester  had  fought 
against  her  sorrows,  before  Pearl's  birth.  It  was  cer 
tainly  a  doubtful  charmamparting  a  hard,  metallic  lustre 
to  the  child's  character.  She  wanted  —  what  some  peo 
ple  want  throughout  life  —  a  grief  that  should  deeply 
touch  her,  and  thus  humanize  and  make  her  capable  of 
sympathv.  But  there  was  time  enough  yet  for  little 


216  THE  SCARLET  LETTER* 

"  Come,  my  child !  "  said  Hester,  looking  about  Lei 
from  the  spot  where  Pearl  had  stood  still  in  the  su» 
shins.  "  We  will  sit  down  a  little  way  within  the  wood, 
and  rest  ourselves." 

;;  I  am  not  aweary,  mother,"  replied  the  little  girl 
••  But  you  may  sit  down,  if  you  will  tell  me  a  story 
meanwhile." 

"  A  story,  child ! "  said  Hester.     "  And  about  what  ?  " 

"  O,  a  story  about  the  Black  Man,"  answered  Prarl, 
taking  hold  of  her  mother's  gown,  and  looking  up,  half 
earnestly,  half  mischievously,  into  her  face.  "  How  he 
haunts  this  forest,  and  carries  a  book  with  him,  —  a  big, 
heavy  book,  with  iron  clasps ;  and  how  this  ugly  Black 
Man  offers  his  book  and  an  iron  pen  to  everybody  that 
meets  him  here  among  the  trees ;  and  they  are  to  write 
their  names  with  their  own  blood.  And  then  he  sets  his 
mark  on  their  bosoms !  Didst  thou  ever  meet  the  Black 
Man,  mother  ? " 

"  And  who  told  you  this  story,  Pearl  ? "  asked  hex 
mother,  recognizing  a  common  superstition  of  the  period. 

"  It  was  the  old  dame  in  the  chimney-corner,  at  the 
house  where  you  watched  last  night,"  said  the  child. 
But  she  fancied  me  asleep  while  she  was  talking  of 
it.  She  said  that  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  people  had 
met  him  here,  and  had  written  in  his  book,  and  have  hi? 
mark  on  them.  And  that  ugly-tempered  lady,  old  Mis 
tress  Hibbins,  was  one.  And,  mother,  the  old  dame  said 
that  this  scarlet  letter  was  the  Black  Man's  mark  on 
thee,  and  that  it  glows  like  a  red  flame  when  thou 
meete.tt  him  at  midnight,  here  in  the  dark  wood.  Is  ii 
true,  mother  ?  And  dost  thou  go  to  meet  him  in  th< 
night-time  ? " 


A    FOREST   WAIA.  21*7 

4  Didst  tnou  ever  awake,  and  find  thy  mothe*  gone  ?* 
wsked  Hestei. 

"  Not  that  1  remember,"  said  the  child.  "  If  thou 
fearest  to  leave  me  in  our  cottage,  thou  mightest  take 
me  along  with  thee.  I  would  very  gladly  go !  But, 
mother,  tell  me  now !  Is  there  such  a  Black  Man  ? 
And  didst  thou  ever  meet  him  ?  And  is  this  his  mark  ?" 

"  Wilt  thou  let  me  be  at  peace,  if  I  once  tell  thee  ? " 
asked  her  mother. 

"  Yes,  if  thou  tellest  me  all,"  answered  Pearl. 

"  Once  in  my  life  I  met  the  Black  Man ! "  said  her 
mother.  "  This  scarlet  letter  is  his  mark !  " 

Thus  conversing,  they  entered  sufficiently  deep  into 
the  wood  to  secure  themselves  from*  the  observation  of 
any  casual  passenger  along  the  forest  track.  Here  they 
sat  down  on  a  luxuriant  heap  of  moss ;  which,  at  some 
epoch  of  the  preceding  century,  had  been  a  gigantic 
pine,  with  its  roots  and  trunk  in  the  darksome  shade, 
and  its  head  aloft  in  the  upper  atmosphere.  It  was  o 
h'ttle  dell  where  they  had  seated  themselves,  with  a  leaf- 
strewn  bank  rising  gently  on  either  side,  and  a  brook 
flowing  through  the  midst,  over  a  bed  of  fallen  and 
drowned  leaves.  The  trees  impending  over  it  had 
Aung  down  great  branches,  from  tune  to  time,  which 
shoked  up  the  current  and  compelled  it  to  form  eddies 
ind  black  depths  at  some  points;  while,  in  its  swiftei 
and  livelier  passages,  there  appeared  a  channel-way  of 
pebbles,  and  brown,  sparkling  sand.  Letting  the  eyes 
Mow  along  the  course  of  the  stream,  they  could  catch 
the  reflected  light  from  its  water,  at  some  short  distance 
within  the  forest,  but  soon  lost  all  traces  of  it  amid  the 
oewildennent  of  tree-trunks  and  underbrush,  and  here 


2)3  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 

and  there  a.  huge  rock  covered  over  with  gray  lichens 
All  these  giant  trees  and  boulders  of  granite  seemed 
intent  on  making  a  mystery  of  the  course  of  this  small 
brook;  fearing,  perhaps,  that,  with  its  never-ceasing 
loquacity,  it  should  whisper  tales  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
old  forest  whence  it  flowed,  or  rmrror  its  revelations  on 
the  smooth  surface  of  a  pool.  Continually,  indeed,  as  it 
stole  onward,  the  streamlet  kept  up  a  babble,  kind,  quiet, 
soothing,  but  melancholy,  like  the  voice  of  a  young  child 
that  was  spending  its  infancy  without  playfulness,  and 
knew  not  how  to  be  merry  among  sad  acquaintance  and 
events  of  sombre  hue. 

"  O  brook !  O  foolish  and  tiresome  little  brook ! r 
cried  Pearl,  after  listening  awhile  to  its  talk.  "  Why 
art  thou  so  sad  ?  Pluck  up  a  spirit,  and  do  not  be  all 
the  time  sighing  and  murmuring !  " 

But  the  brook,  in  the  course  of  its  little  lifetime 
among  the  forest-trees,  had  gone  through  so  solemn  an 
experience  that  it  could  not  help  talking  about  it,  and 
seemed  to  have  nothing  else  to  say.  Pearl  resembled 
the  brook,  inasmuch  as  the  current  of  her  life  gushed 
from  a  well-spring  as  mysterious,  and  had  flowed  through 
scenes  shadowed  as  heavily  with  gloom.  But,  unlike 
the  little  stream,  she  danced  and  sparkled,  and  prattled 
airily  along  her  course. 

"What  does  this  sad  1'ittle  brook  say,  mother?' 
inquired  she. 

"  If  thou  hadst  a  sorrow  of  thine  own,  the  bro^* 
might  tell  thee  of  it,"  answered  her  mother,  "  even  as  n 
is  telling  me  of  mine !  But  now,  Pearl,  I  hear  a  foot 
step  along  the  path,,  and  the  noise  of  one  putting  asi/fc 


A   FOREST    WALK.  V\$ 

tfie  branches.     I  would  have  thee  betake  thyself  to  play 
and  leave  me  to  speak  with  him  that  comes  yonder." 

"  Is  it  the  Black  Man  ?  "  asked  Pearl. 

"  Wilt  thou  go  and  play,  child  ?  "  repeated  her  mothel 
••  But  do  not  stray  far  into  the  wood.  And  take  heed 
that  thou  come  at  my  first  call." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  answered  Pearl.  "  But  if  it  be  the 
Black  Man,  wilt  thou  not  let  me  stay  a  moment,  and 
look  at  him,  with  his  big  book  under  his  arm  ?  " 

"  Go,  silly  child  !  "  said  her  mother,  impatiently.  "  It 
is  no  Black  Man !  Thou  canst  see  him  now,  through 
the  trees.  It  is  the  minister !  " 

"  And  so  it  is  !  "  said  the  child.  "  And,  mother,  he 
.ias  his  hand  over  his  heart !  Is  it  because,  when  the 
minister  wrote  his  name  in  the  book,  the  Black  Man  set 
his  mark  in  that  place  ?  But  why  does  he  not  wear  it 
outside  his  bosom,  as  thou  dost,  mother  ? " 

"Go  now,  child,  and  thou  shalt  tease  me  as  thou  will 
another  time,"  cried  Hester  Prynne.  "  But  do  not  stray 
far.  Keep  where  thou  canst  hear  the  babble  of  the 
Srook." 

The  child  went  singing  away,  following  up  the  cur 
rent  of  the  brook,  and  striving  to  mingle  a  more  light 
some  cadence  with  its  melancholy  voice.  But  the  little 
stream  would  not  be  comforted,  and  still  kept  telling  its 
unintelligible  secret  of  some  very  mournful  mystery 
that  had  happened  —  or  making  a  prophetic  lamentation 
about  something  that  was  yet  to  happen — within  the 
verge  of  the  dismal  forest.  So  Pearl,  who  had  enough 
of  shadow  in  her  own  little  life,  chose  to  breaV  off  all 
icquaintance  with  this  repining  brook.  S*  aet  herself, 
therefore,  to  gathering  violets  and  woo-'  anemones,  xnri 


220  THE   SCARLET   LETTER. 

some  scarlet  columbines  that  she  found  growing  in  the 
crevices  of  a  high  rock. 

When  her  elf-child  had  departed,  Hester  Prynne  made 
a  step  or  two  towards  the  track  that  led  through  the 
forest,  but  still  remained  under  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
trees.  She  beheld  the  minister  advancing  along  the 
path,  entirely  alone,  and  leaning  on  a  staff  which  he  had 
cut  by  the  way-side.  He  looked  haggard  and  feeble, 
and  betrayed  a  nerveless  despondency  in  his  air,  which 
had  never  so  remarkably  characterized  him  in  his  walks 
about  the  settlement,  nor  in  any  other  situation  where 
he  deemed  himself  liable  to  notice.  Here  it  was  wofully 
visible,  in  this  intense  seclusion  of  the  forest,  which  of 
itself  would  have  been  a  heavy  trial  to  the  spirits. 
There  was  a  listlessness  in  his  gait ;  as  if  he  saw  no 
reason  for  taking  one  step  further,  nor  felt  any  desire 
to  do  so,  but  would  have  been  glad,  could  he  be  glad  of 
anything,  to  fling  himself  down  at  the  root  of  the  near 
est  tree,  and  lie  there  passive,  forevermore.  The  leaves 
might  bestrew  him,  and  the  soil  gradually  accumulate 
and  form  a  little  hillock  over  his  frame,  no  matter 
whether  there  were  life  in  it  or  no.  Death  was  too 
definite  an  object  to  be  wished  for,  or  avoided. 

To  Hester's  eye,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  ex 
hibited  no  symptom  of  positive  and  vivacious  suffering 
except  that,  as  little  Pearl  had  remarked,  he  kept  his 
hand  over  his  heart. 


THE   PASTOR  AND   HIS   PARISHIONER.  221 


XVII. 

THE   PASTOR  AND   HIS   PARISHIONER. 

SLOWLY  as  the  minister  walked,  he  had  almost  gone 
by,  before  Hester  Prynne  could  gather  voice  enough  to 
attract  his  observation.  At  length,  she  succeeded. 

"  Arthur  Dimmesdale  ! "  she  said,  faintly  at  first ; 
then  louder,  but  hoarsely.  "  Arthur  Dimmesdale  ! " 

"Who  speaks?"  answered  the  minister.  • 

Gathering  himself  quickly  up,  he  stood  more  erect, 
like  a  man  taken  by  surprise  in  a  mood  to  which  he 
was  reluctant  to  have  witnesses.  Throwing  his  eyes 
anxiously  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  he  indistinctly 
beheld  a  form  under  the  trees,  clad  iii  garments  so 
sombre,  and  so  little  relieved  from  the  gray  twilight 
into  which  the  clouded  sk}T  and  the  heavy  foliage  had 
darkened  the  noontide,  that  he  knew  not  whether  it 
were  a  woman  or  a  shadow.  It  may  be,  that  his  path 
way  through  life  was  haunted  thus,  by  a  spectre  that 
had  stolen  out  from  among  his  thoughts. 

He  made  a  step  nigher,  and  discovered  the  scarlet 
letter. 

"  Hester  !  Hester  Prynne  !  "  said  he.  "  Is  it  thou  ] 
Art  thou  in  life  ? " 

"  Even  so  !  "  she  answered.  "  In  such  life  as  has 
been  mine  these  seven  years  past !  And  thou,  Arthur 
Dimmesdale,  dost  thou  yet  live  1 " 

It  was  no  wonder  that  they  thus  questioned  one  an 
other's  actual  and  bodily  existence,  and  even  doubted 


THE    SCARLET   LETTEfc. 

of  their  own  So  strangely  did  they  meet,  in  the  dim 
wood,  that  it  was  like  the  first  encounter,  in  the  \vorld 
beyond  the  grave,  of  two  spirits  who  had  been  inti 
mately  connected  in  their  former  life,  but  now  stood 
coldly  shuddering,  in  mutual  dread ;  as  not  yet  familiar 
with  their  state,  nor  wonted  to  the  companionship  of 
disembodied  beings.  Each  a  ghost,  and  awe-stricken  at 
the  other  ghost !  They  were  awe-stricken  likewise  at 
themselves ;  because  the  crisis  flung  back  to  them  their 
consciousness,  and  revealed  to  each  heart  its  history  and 
experience,  as  life  never  does,  except  at  such  breathless 
epochb.  The  soul  beheld  its  features  in  the  mirror  of 
che  passing  moment.  It  was  with  fear,  and  tremulously, 
and,  as  it  were,  by  a  slow,  reluctant  necessity,  that 
Arthur  Dimmesdale  put  forth  his  hand,  chill  as  death, 
and  touched  the  chill  hand  of  Hester  Prynne.  The 
grasp,  cold  as  it  was,  took  away  what  was  dreariest  in 
the  interview.  They  now  felt  themselves,  at  least, 
inhabitants  of  the  same  sphere. 

Without  a  word  more  spoken,  —  neither  he  nor  she 
assuming  the  guidance,  but  with  an  unexpressed  con 
sent,  —  they  glided  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods, 
whence  Hester  had  emerged,  anc  sat  down  on  the  heap 
of  moss  where  she  and  Pearl  \iad  before  been  sitting. 
When  they  found  voice  to  speak,  it  was,  at  first,  only 
to  utter  remarks  and  inquiries  sucn  as  any  two  ac 
quaintance  might  have  made,  about  the  gloomy  sky,  the 
threatening  storm,  and,  next,  the  health  of  each.  Thus 
they  xvent  onward,  not  boldly,  but  step  by  step,  into  the 
themes  that  were  brooding  deepest  in  their  hearts.  So 
long  estranged  by  fate  and  circumstances,  they  needed 
Bomnhing  slight  and  casual  to  run  before,  and  throw 


*   THE    PASTOR    AND    HIS    PAR1SH10;SKK. 

open  the  doors  of  intercourse,  so  that  their  real  thoughts 
might  be  led  across  the  threshold. 

After  a  while,  the  ministei  fixed  his  eyes  on  Hester 
Prynne's. 

"  Hester,"  said  he,  "  hast  thou  found  peace  ?  " 

She  smiled  drearily,  looking  down  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Hast  thou  ? "  she  asked. 

"None! — nothing  but  despair!"  he  -answered. 
"What  else  could  I  look  for,  being  what  I  am,  and 
leading  such  a  life  as  mine  ?  Were  I  an  atheist,  —  a 
man  devoid  of  conscience,  —  a  wretch  with  coarse  and 
brutal  instincts,  —  I  might  have  found  peace,  long  ere 
now.  Nay,  I  never  should  have  lost  it !  But,  as  matters 
stand  with  my  soul,  whatever  of  good  capacity  there 
originally  was  in  me,  all  of  Go.l's  gifts  that  were  the 
choicest  have  become  the  ministers  of  spiritual  torment. 
Hester,  I  am  most  miserable  !  " 

"  The  people  reverence  thee,"  said  Hester.  "  And 
surely  thou  workest  good  among  them !  Doth  this  bring 
thee  no  comfort  ? " 

"More  misery,  Hester!  —  only  the  more  misery!" 
answered  the  clergyman,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  As  con 
cerns  the  good  which  I  may  appear  to  do,  I  have  no  faith 
in  it.  It  must  needs  be  a  delusion.  What  can  a  ruined 
soul,  like  mine,  effect  towards  the  redemption  of  other 
souls?  —  or  a  polluted  soul,  towards  their  purification? 
And  as  for  the  people's  re 'jrsnce,  would  that  it  were 
turned  to  scorn  and  hatred  !  Canst  thou  deem  it,  Hes 
ter,  a  consolation,  that  I  must  stand  up  in  my  pulpit,  and 
meet  so  many  eyes  turned  upward  to  my  face,  as  if  the 
light  of  heaven  were  beaming  from  it !  —  must  see  my 
flock  hungry  for  the  truth,  and  listening  to  my  words  as 


224  THE    SCARLET    LETTEft. 

if  a  tongue  of  Pentecost  were  speaking !  —  and  then  look 
inward,  and  discern  the  black  reality  of  what  they  idol 
ize  ?  I  have  laughed,  in  bitterness  and  agony  of  heart, 
at  the  contrast  between  what  I  seem  and  what  I  am ! 
And  Satan  laughs  at  it !  " 

"  You  wrong  yourself  in  this,"  said  Hester,  gently. 
"  You  have  deeply  and  sorely  repented.  Your  sin  is  left 
behind  you,  in  the  days  long  past.  Your  present  life  is 
not  less  holy,  in  very  truth,  than  it  seems  in  people's 
eyes.  Is  there  no  reality  in  the  penitence  thus  sealed 
and  witnessed  by  good  works  ?  And  wherefore  should 
it  not  bring  you  peace  ? " 

"  No,  Hester,  no !  "  replied  the  clergyman.  "  There 
is  no  substance  in  it!  It  is  cold  and  dead,  and  can  do 
nothing  for  me !  Of  penance,  I  have  had  enough  !  Of 
penitence,  there  has  been  none  !  Else,  I  should  long 
ago  have  thrown  off  these  garments  of  mock  holiness, 
and  have  shown  myself  to  mankind  as  they  will  see 
me  at  the  judgment-seat.  Happy  are  you,  Hester,  that 
wear  the  scarlet  letter  openly  upon  your  bosom !  Mine 
burns  in  secret !  Thou  little  knowest  what  a  relief  it 
is,  after  the  torment  of  a  seven  years'  cheat,  to  look  into 
an  eye  that  recognizes  me  for  what  I  am !  Had  I  cue 
friend,  —  or  were  it  my  worst  enemy!  —  to  whom,  when 
sickened  with  the  praises  of  all  other  men,  I  could  dauy 
betake  myself,  and  be  known  as  the  vilest  of  all  sinners, 
methinks  my  soul  might  keep  itself  alive  thereby.  Ever 
thus  much  of  truth  would  save  me  !  But,  now,  it  is  all 
falsehood  !  —  all  emptiness  !  —  all  death  !  " 

Hester  Prynne  looked  into  his  face,  but  hesitated  to 
speak.  Yet,  uttering  his  long-restrained  emotions  so 
vehemently  as  he  did,  his  words  here  offered  her  th« 


THE    PASTOR   AND     IIS    PARISHIOiVH  1.  225 

/cry  pohJ  of  circumstances  in  which  to  interpose  what 
she  came  to  say.  She  conquered  her  fears,  and  spoke. 

"  Such  a  friend  as  thou  hast  even  now  wished  for,' 
said  she,  "  with  whom  to  weep  over  thy  sin,  thou  hast 
in  me,  the  partner  of  it ! "  —  Again  she  hesitated,  but 
brought  out  the  words  with  an  effort.  —  "  Thou  hast  long 
had  such  an  enemy,  and  dwellest  with  him,  under  the 
same  roof ! " 

The  minister  started  to  his  feet,  gasping  for  breath, 
and  clutching  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  would  have  torn  it 
oat  of  his  bosom. 

"  Ha  !  What  sayest  thou ! "  cried  he.  "  An  enemy ! 
And  under  mine  own  roof!  What  mean  you  ? " 

Hester  Prynne  was  now  fully  sensible  of  the  deep 
injury  for  which  she  was  responsible  to  this  unhappy 
man,  in  permitting  him  to  lie  for  so  many  years,  or 
indeed,  for  a  single  moment,  at  the  mercy  of  one  whose 
purposes  could  not  be  other  than  malevolent.  The  very 
contiguity  of  his  enemy,  beneath  whatever  mask  the  lat 
ter  might  conceal  himself,  was  enough  to  disturb  the 
magnetic  sphere  of  a  being  so  sensitive  as  Arthur  Dim- 
mesdale.  There  had  been  a  period  when  Hester  was 
less  alive  to  this  consideration ;  or,  perhaps,  in  the  mis 
anthropy  of  her  own  trouble,  she  left  the  minister  to  beai 
what  she  might  picture  to  herself  as  a  more  tolerable 
doom.  But  of  late,  since  the  night  of  his  vigil,  all  her 
sympathies  towards  him  had  been  both  softened  and 
invigorated.  She  now  read  his  heart  more  accurately 
She  doubted  not,  that  the  continual  presence  of  Rogei 
Chillingworth,  —  the  secret  poison  of  his  malignity,  in 
fecting  all  the  air  about  him,  —  and  his  authorized  inter 
ference,  as  a  physician,  with  the  minister's  physical  and 
15 


286  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

spiritual  infirmities,  —  that  these  bad  opportunities  had 
been  turned  to  a  cruel  purpose.  By  means  of  them,  the 
sufferer's  conscience  had  been  kept  in  an  irritated  state, 
the  tendency  of  which  was,  not  to  cure  by  wholesome 
pain,  but  to  disorganize  and  corrupt  his  spiritual  being. 
Its  result,  on  earth,  could  hardly  fail  to  be  insanity,  and 
hereafter,  that  eternal  alienation  from  the  Good  ard  True, 
of  whirh  madness  is  perhaps  the  earthly  type. 

Such  was  the  ruin  to  which  she  had  brought  the  man, 
once,  —  nay,  why  should  we  not  speak  it  ?  —  still  so  pas 
sionately  loved !  Hester  felt  that  the  sacrifice  of  the 
clergyman's  good  name,  and  death  itself,  as  she  had 
already  told  Roger  Chillingworth,  would  have  been  infi 
nitely  preferable  to  the  alternative  which  she  had  taken 
upon  herself  to  choose.  And  now,  rather  than  have  had 
this  grievous  wrong  to  confess,  she  would  gladly  have 
lain  down  on  the  forest-leaves,  and  died  there,  at  Arthur 
Dimmesdale's  feet. 

"  O  Arthur,"  cried  she,  "  forgive  me  !  In  all  things 
else,  I  have  striven  to  be  true  !  Truth  was  the  one 
virtue  which  I  might  have  held  fast,  and  did  hold  fast, 
ihrough  all  extremity;  save  when  thy  good,  —  thy  life, 
—  thy  fame,  —  were  put  in  question  !  Then  I  con 
sented  to  a  deception.  But  a  lie  is  never  good,  even 
though  death  threaten  on  the  other  side !  Dost  thou 
not  see  what  I  would  say  ?  That  old  man !  —  the  phy 
sician! —  he  whom  they  call  Roger  Chill ingwo-th  !  — 
he  was  my  husband  ! " 

The  minister  looked  at  her,  for  an  instant,  with  all 
that  violence  of  passion,  which  —  intermixed,  in  more 
shapes  thnn  one,  with  his  higher,  purer,  softer  qualities, 
—  was,  in  fact,  the  portion  of  him  which  the  Devil 


THE    PASTOR    AND   HIS    PARISHIONER.  <2STi 

claimed,  and  through  which  he  sought  to  win  the  rest 
Never  was  there  a  blacker  or  a  fiercer  frown  than  Hes 
ter  now  encountered.  For  the  brief  space  that  it  lasted, 
it  was  a  dark  transfiguration.  But  his  character  had 
been  so  much  enfeebled  by  suffering,  that  even  its  lower 
energies  were  incapable  of  more  than  a  temporary  strug 
gle.  He  sank  down  on  the  ground,  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"  I  might  have  known  it,"  murmured  he.  "  I  did 
know  it !  Was  not  the  secret  told  me,  in  the  natural 
recoil  of  my  heart,  at  the  first  sight  of  him,  and  as  often 
as  I  have  seen  him  since  ?  Why  did  I  not  understand  ? 
O  Hester  Prynne,  thou  little,  little  knowest  all  the  hor 
ror  of  this  thing  !  And  the  shame  !  —  the  indelicacy ! 
—  the  horrible  ugliness  of  this  exposure  of  a  sick  and 
guilty  heart  to  the  very  eye  that  would  gloat  over  it ! 
Woman,  woman,  thou  art  accountable  for  this  !  I  can 
not  forgive  thee  !  " 

"  Thou  shalt  forgive  me  !  "  cried  Hester,  flinging  her 
self  on  the  fallen  leaves  beside  him.  * "  Let  God  pun 
ish  !  Thou  shalt  forgive  !  " 

With  sudden  and  desperate  tenderness,  she  threw  hei 
arms  around  him,  and  pressed  his  head  against  her  bosom  • 
little  caring  though  his  cheek  rested  on  the  scarlet  letter, 
He  would  have  released  himself,  but  strove  in  vain  to  do 
so.  Hester  would  not  set  him  free,  lest  he  should  look 
her  sternly  in  the  face.  All  the  world  had  frowned  on 
her,  —  for  seven  long  years  had  it  frowned  upon  this 
lonely  woman,  —  and  still  she  bore  it  all,  nor  ever  once 
turned  away  her  firm,  sad  eyes.  Heaven,  likewise,  had 
frowned  upon  ber,  and  she  had  not  died.  But  the 


228  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

of  this  pale,  weak  "infill,  and  soi  row-stricken  man  *as 
what  Hester  could  not  bear  and  live  ! 

"  Wilt  thou  yet  forgive  me  !  "  she  repeated,  over  and 
over  again.     "Wilt  thou  not  frown?     Wilt  thou  for 


"  1  do  forgive  you,  Hester,"  replied  the  minister-,  al 
length,  with  a  deep  utterance,  out  of  an  abyss  of  sadness, 
but  no  anger.  "  I  freely  forgive  you  now.  May  God 
forgive  us  both  !  We  are  not,  Hester,  the  worst  sinners 
in  the  world.  There  is  one  worse  than  even  the  pol 
luted  priest  !  That  old  man's  revenge  has  been  blacker 
than  my  sin.  He  has  violated,  in  cold  blood,  the  sanc 
tity  of  a  human  heart.  Thou  and  I,  Hester,  never  did 
o!" 

"  Never,  never  !  "  whispered  she.  "  What  we  did  had 
a  consecration  of  its  own.  We  felt  it  so  !  We  said  so 
to  each  other  !  Hast  thou  forgotten  it  ?  " 

••  Hush,  Hester  !  "  said  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  rising 
from  the  ground.  "  No  ;  I  have  not  forgotten  !  " 

They  sat  down  again,  side  by  side,  and  hand  clasped 
in  hand,  on  the  mossy  trunk  of  the  fallen  tree.  Life  had 
never  brought  them  a  gloomier  hour  ;  it  was  the  point 
whither  their  pathway  had  so  long  been  tending,  and 
darkening  ever,  as  it  stole  along;  —  and  yet  it  enclosed 
a  charm  that  made  them  linger  upon  it,  and  claim  an 
other,  and  another,  and,  after  all,  another  moment.  The 
forest  was  obscure  around  them,  and  creal-.ed  with  a 
blast  that  was  passing  through  it.  The  boughs  were 
tossing  heavily  above  their  heads;  while  one  solemn  old 
tree  groaned  dolefully  to  another,  as  if  telling  the  sad 
story  of  the  pair  that  sat  beneath,  or  constrained  lo  fore 
bode  evil  to  come. 


OLE    PASTOR    AI*D    HIS    PARISHIONER 

And  yet  they  lingered.  How  dreary  looked  the  forest- 
track  that  led  backward  to  the  settlement,  where  Hester 
Prynue  must  take  up  again  the  burden  of  her  ignominy, 
and  the  minister  the  hollow  mockery  of  his  good  name  ! 
So  they  lingered  an  instant  longer.  No  golden  light  had 
ever  been  so  precious  as  the  gloom  of  this  dark  forest. 
Here,  seen  only  by  his  eyes,  the  scarlet  letter  need  not 
bum  into  the  bosom  of  the  fallen  woman !  Here,  seen 
only  by  her  eyes,  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  false  to  God  and 
man,  might  be,  for  one  moment,  true ! 

He  started  at  a  thought  that  suddenly  occurred  to 
him. 

"Hester,"  cried  he  "here  is  a  new  horror  !  Roger 
Chillingworth  knows  your  purpose  to  reveal  his  true 
character.  Will  he  continue,  then,  to  keep  our  secret  ? 
What  will  now  be  the  course  of  his  revenge  ? " 

"  There  is  a  strange  secrecy  in  his  nature,"  replied 
Hester,  thoughtfully ;  "  and  it  has  grown  upon  him  by 
the  hidden  practices  of  his  revenge.  I  deem  it  not  likely 
that  he  will  betray  the  secret.  He  will  doubtless  see1* 
other  means  of  satiating  his  dark  passion." 

"  And  I !  —  how  am  I  to  live  longer,  breathing  the 
same  air  with  this  deadly  enemy  ? "  exclaimed  Arthur 
Dimmesdale,  shrinking  within  himself,  and  pressing  his 
hand  nervously  against  his  heart,  —  a  gesture  that  had 
grown  involuntary  with  him.  "  Think  for  me,  Hester  ! 
Thou  art  strong.  Resolve  for  me  ! " 

"  Thou  must  dwell  no  longer  with  this  man,"  said 
Hester,  slowly  and  firmly.  "Thy  heart  must  be  no 
longer  under  his  evil  eye  ! " 

"  It  were  far  worse  than  death ! "  replied  the  minister 
*  But  how  to  avoid  it  ?  What  choice  remains  to  me  ' 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

Shall  I  lie  down  again  on  these  withered  leaves,  where 
I  cast  myself  when  thou  didst  tell  me  what  he  was  1. 
Must  I  sink  down  there,  and  die  at  once  ?" 

"  Alas,  what  a  ruin  has  befallen  thee ! "  said  Hester, 
with  the  tears  gushing  into  her  eyes.  "  Wilt  thou  die 
for  very  weakness  ?  There  is  no  other  cause ! " 

"The  judgment  of  God  is  on  me,"  answered  the  con 
science-stricken  priest.  "It  is  too  mighty  for  me  to 
struggle  with ! " 

"  Heaven  would  show  mercy,"  rejoined  Hester,  "hadst 
thou  but  the  strength  to  take  advantage  of  it." 

"  Be  thou  strong  for  me  ! "  answered  he.  "Advise  me 
what  to  do." 

"  Is  the  world,  then,  so  narrow  ? "  exclaimed  Hester 
Prynne,  fixing  her  deep  eyes  on  the  minister's,  and  in 
stinctively  exercising  a  magnetic  power  over  a  spirit  so 
shattered  and  subdued  that  it  could  hardly  hold  itself 
erect.  "  Doth  the  universe  lie  within  the  compass  of 
yonder  town,  which  only  a  little  time  ago  was  but  a  leaf- 
strewn  desert,  as  lonely  as  this  around  us  ?  Whithei 
leads  yonder  forest  track  ?  Backward  to  the  settlement, 
thou  sayest !  Yes ;  but  onward,  too !  Deeper  it  goes, 
and  deeper,  into  the  wilderness,  less  plainly  to  be  seen 
at  every  step;  until,  some  few  miles  hence,  the  yellow 
leaves  will  show  no  vestige  of  the  white  man's  tread. 
There  thou  art  free !  So  brief  a  journey  would  bring 
thee  from  a  world  where  thou  hast  been  most  wretched, 
to  one  where  thou  mayest  still  be  happy  !  Is  there  not 
shade  enough  in  all  this  boundless  forest  to  hide  thy 
heart  from  the  gaze  of  Roger  Chillingworth  ? " 

"Yes,  Hester;  but  only  under  the  fallen  leaves!1 
replied  the  minister,  with  a  sad  srnile. 


f «JE    PASTOR    AND   HIS   PARISHIONER,  23l 

"  Then  there  is  the  broad  pathway  of  the  sea ! "  con 
tinued  Hester.  "It  brought  thee  hither.  If  thou  so 
choose,  it  will  bear  thee  back  again.  In  our  native  land, 
whether  in  some  remote  rural  village  or  in  vast  London, 

—  or,  surely,  in  Germany,  in  France,  in  pleasant  Italy, 

—  thou  wouldst  be  beyond  his  power  and  knowledge  ! 
And  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  all  these  iron  men,  and 
their  opinions  ?    They  have  kept  thy  better  part  in  bond 
age  too  long  already  ! " 

"  It  cannot  be ! "  answered  the  minister,  listening  as 
if  he  were  called  upon  to  realize  a  dream.  "  I  am  pow 
erless  to  go!  Wretched  and  sinful  as  I  am,  I  have  had 
no  other  thought  than  to  drag  on  my  earthly  existence  in 
the  sphere  where  Providence  hath  placed  me.  Lost  as 
my  own  soul  is,  I  would  still  do  what  I  may  for  other 
human  souls !  I  dare  not  quit  my  post,  though  an  unfaith 
ful  sentinel,  whose  sure  reward  is  death  and  dishonor, 
when  his  dreary  watch  shall  come  to  an  end  ! " 

"  Thou  art  crushed  under  this  seven  years'  weight  of 
misery,"  replied  Hester,  fervently  resolved  to  buoy  him 
up  with  her  own  energy.  "  But  thou  shalt  leave  it  all 
behind  thee  !  It  shall  not  cumber  thy  steps,  as  thou 
treadest  along  the  forest-path  ;  neither  shalt  thou  freight 
the  ship  with  it,  if  thou  prefer  to  cross  the  sea.  Leave 
this  wreck  and  ruin  here  where  it  hath  happened.  Med 
dle  no  more  with  it !  Begin  all  anew  !  Hast  thou  ex- 
haustrd  possibility  in  the  failure  of  this  one  trial  ?  Not 
so  !  The  future  is  yet 'full  of  trial  and  success.  There 
is  happiness  to  be  enjoyed  !  There -is  good  to  be  done  ! 
Exchange  this  false  life  of  thine  for  a  true  one.  B**,  if 
.hy  spirit  summon  thee  to  such  a  mission,  the  teacher 
%nd  apostle  of  the  red  men.  Or, — as  is  more  thy 


232  THE    SCARLET   LtiTTEB. 

nature,  —  be  a  scholar  an  I  a  sage  among  the  wisest  and 
the  most  renowned  of  tt.3  cultivated  world.  Preach  . 
Write  !  Act !  Do  anything,  save  to  lie  do\*n  and  die 
Give  up  this  name  of  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  and  make 
thyself  another,  and  a  high  one,  such  as  thou  canst  wear 
without  fear  or  shame.  Why  shouldst  thou  tarry  so 
much  as  one  other  day  in  the  torments  that  have  so 
gnawed  into  thy  life !  —  that  have  made  thee  feeble  to 
will  and  to  do  !  —  that  will  leave  thee  powerless  even  to 
lepent !  Up,  and  away  ! " 

"  O  Hester ! "  cried  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  in  whose 
eyes  a  fitful  light,  kindled  by  her  enthusiasm,  flashed 
up  and  died  away,  "  thou  tellest  of  running  a  race  to  a 
man  whose  knees  are  tottering  beneath  him !  1  must 
die  here  !  There  is  not  the  strength  or  courage  left  me 
to  venture  into  the  wide,  strange,  difficult  world,  alone  ! '' 

It  was  the  last  expression  of  the  despondency  of  a 
broken  spirit.     He  lacked  energy  to  grasp  the  better  fo- 
tune  that  seamed  within  his  reach. 

He  repeated  the  word. 

"Alone,  Hester!" 

"  Thou  shalt  not  go  alor.o  ! "  answered  she,  in  a  deep 
whisper. 

Then,  all  was  spoken  ! 


A   FLOOD   OF    SUNSHINE.  233 


XVIII. 

A  FLOOD  OF  SUNSHINE. 

DIMMESDALE  gazed  into  Hester's  face  with  a 
lack  in  which  hope  and  joy  shone  out,  indeed,  but  with 
fear  betwixt  them,  and  a  kind  of  horror  at  her  boldness, 
wht  had  spoken  what  he  vaguely  hinted  at,  but  dared 
not  .speak. 

But  Hester  Prynne,  with  a  mind  of  native  courage  and 
activity,  and  for  so  long  a  period  not  merely  estranged, 
but  outlawed,  from  society,  had  habituated  herself  to  such 
latitude  of  speculation  as  was  altogether  foreign  to  the 
clergyman.  She  had  wandered,  without  rule  or  guid 
ance,  in  a  moral  wilderness ;  as  vast,  as  intricate  and 
shadowy,  as  the  untamed  forest,  amid  the  gloom  of  which 
they  were  now  holding  a  colloquy  that  was  to  decide  theii 
fate.  Her  intellect  and  heart  had  their  home,  as  it  were, 
in  desert  places,  where  she  roamed  as  freely  a?  the  wild 
Indian  in  his  woods.  For  yeai§_j)a^-slM>-had4oQkedJ(rprn 
this  estranged  point  of  view  at  human  institutions,  and 
whatever  priests  or  legislators  had  established ;  criticising 
all  with  hardly  more  reverence  than  the  Indian  would  feel 
foL-feL- clerical  band,  the  judicial  robe,  the  pillory,  the 

gallpj5[s^the_fireside,  or  the  church. ThjL  tendency  of 

her  fate  and  fortunes  had  been  to  set  her  free.     The 
scarlet  letter  was  her  passport  into  regions  \vheA2  othel 
women   dared   not   tread.     -Shame,  Despair,  Solitude 
These  had  hfipn  her  tearhp.ry— -gt^rn   ami  >ril<i 


234  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

and  they  had  mada  Jier  strong,  but  taught_Jifiju  much 
amiss. 

The  minister,  on  the  other  hand,  had  never  gone 
through  an  experience  calculated  to  lead  him  beyond  the 
scope  of  generally  received  laws  ;  although,  in  a  single 
instance,  he  had  so  fearfully  transgressed  one  of  the  most 
•mcred  of  them.  But  this  had  been  a  sin  of  passion,  not 
of  principle,  nor  even  purpose.  Since  that  wretched 
epoch,  he  had  watched,  with  morbid  zeal  and  minuteness, 
-jiot  his  acts.  —  for  those  it  was  easy  to  arrange,— 
but  each  breath  of  emotion,  and  his  every  thought.  At 
the  head  of  the  social  system,  as  the  clergymen  of  that 
day  stood,  he  was  only  the  more  trammelled  by  its  regu 
lations,  its  principles  and  even  its  prejudices.  As  a 
priest,  the  framework  of  his  order  inevitably  hemmed  him 
xi.  As  a  man  who  had  once  sinned,  but  who  kept  his 
conscience  all  alive  and  painfully  sensitive  by  the  fretting 
of  an  unhealed  wound,  he  might  have  been  supposed 
safer  within  the  line  of  virtue  than  if  he  had  never 
sinned  at  all. 

Thus,  we  seem  to  see  that,  as  regarded  Hester  Prynne, 
the  whole  seven  years  of  outlaw  and  ignominy  had  been 
little  other  than  a  preparation  for  this  very  hour.  But 
Arthur  Dimmesdaie !  Were  such  a  man  once  more  to 
fall,  what  plea  could  be  urged  in  extenuation  of  his  crime  ? 
None  ;  unless  it  avail  him  somewhat,  that  he  was  broker.', 
down  by  long  and  exquisite  suffering ;  that  his  mind  was 
darkened  and  confused  by  the  very  remorse  which  har 
rowed  it ;  that,  between  fleeing  as  an  avowed  criminal, 
and  remaining  as  a  hypocrite,  conscience  might  find  it 
hard  to  strike  the  balance;  that  it  was  human  to  avoid 
vhe  peril  of  derfh  and  infamy,  and  the  inscrutable  machi- 


A    FL001;   OF    SUNSHINE.  235 

nations  of  an  enemy ;  that,  finally,  to  this  poor  pilgrim, 
on  his  dreary  and  desert  path,  faint,  sick,  miserable,  there 
appeared  a  glimpse  of  human  affection  and  sympathy^  a 
new  life,  and  a  true  one,  in  exchange  for  the  heavy  doom 
which  he  was  now  expiating.  And  be  the  stern  and  sad 
truth  spoken,  that  the  breach  which  guilt  has  once  madr 
into  the  human  soul  is  never,  in  this  mortal  state,  repaired. 
It  may  be  watched  and  guarded;  so  that  the  enemy 
shall  not  force  his  way  again  into  the  citadel,  and  might 
even,  in  his  subsequent  assaults,  select  some  other  avenue, 
in  preference  to  that  where  he  had  formerly  succeeded. 
But  there  is  still  the  ruined  wall,  and,  near  it,  the  stealthy 
tread  of  the  foe  that  would  win  .over  again  his  unforgot 
ten  triumph. 

The  struggle,  if  there  were  one,  need  not  be  described 
Let  it  suffice,  that  the  clergyman  resolved  to  flee,  and  not 
alone. 

"  If,  in  all  these  past  seven  years,"  thought  he,  "  I 
could  recall  one  instant  of  peace  or  hope,  I  would  yet 
endure,  for  the  sake  of  that  earnest  of  Heaven's  mercy. 
But  now,  —  since  I  am  irrevocably  doomed, — wherefore 
should  I  not  snatch  the  solace  allowed  to  the  condemned 
culprit  before  his  execution  ?  Or,  if  this  be  the  path  to 
a  better  life,  as  Hester  would  persuade  me,  I  surely  give 
up  no  fairer  prospect  by  pursuing  itf  Neither  can  I 
any  longer  live  without  her  companionship  ;  so  powerful 
is  she  to  sustain, —  so  tender  to  soothe!  O  Thou  to 
whom  I  dare  not  lift  mine  eyes,  wilt  Thou  yet  pardon 
me!" 

"  Thou  wilt  go  !  "  said  Hester,  calmly,  as  he  met  her 
glance. 

The  decision  once  made,  a  glow  of  strange  enjoyment 


836  THE  SCARLET  LETTFR. 

threw  its  flickering  brightness  over  the  trouble  af  hi* 
breast  It  was^h.e_ejdiilarating ^effect  —  upon  a  prisunei 
j^t^S£aged_frorn^  the  dungeon  of  his  own  heart — of 
breathing  the  wild,  free  atmosphere  of  an  unredeemed, 
unchristianiziHrpfewless  region.  His  spirit  rose,  as  i. 
were,  with  a  bound,  arid  attained"a~ne~arer  prospect  of 
the  sky,  thnn  throughout  all  the  misery  which  had  kepi 
him  grovelrmg— e«  the  earth.  Of  a  deeply  religious 
temperament,  there  was  inevitably  a  tinge  of  the  devo 
tional  in  his  mood. 

"  Do  I  feel  joy  again  ?  "  cried  he,  wondering  at  him- 
self.  "  Methought  the  germ  of  it  was  deaj  in  me !  0 
Hester,  thou  art  my  better  angel !  I  seem  to  have  flung 
myself — sick,  sin-stained,  and  sorrow-blackened  —  down 
upon  these  forest-leaves,  and  to  have  risen  up  all  made 
anew,  and  with  new  powers  to  glorify  Him  that  hath  been 
merciful !  This  i?  already  the  better  life !  Why  did  we 
not  find  it  sooner  ?  " 

"  Let  us  not  look  back,"  answered  Hester  Prynne. 
"  The  past  is  gone  !  Wherefore  should  we  linger  upon 
it  now  ?  See !  With  this  symbol,  I  undo  it  all,  and 
make  it  as  it  had  never  been  !  " 

So  speaking,  she  undid  the  clasp  that  fastened  the  scar 
let  letter,  and,  taking  it  from  her  bosom,  threw  it  to  a  dis 
tance  among  the  withered  leaves.  The  mystic  token 
alighted  on  the  hither  verge  of  the  stream.  With  a 
hand's  breadth  further  flight  it  would  have  fallen  into  the 
water,  and  have  given  the  little  brook  another  woe  to 
carry  onward,  besides  the  unintelligible  tale  which  it  still 
kept  murmuring  about.  But  there  lay  the  embroidered 
letter,  glittering  like  a  lost  jewel,  which  some  ill-fated 
might  pick  up,  an  I  thenceforth  be  haunted  by 


A.   FLOOD    OF   SUNSHINE.  237 

strange  phantoms  of  guilt,  sinkings  of  the  heart,  and 
unaccountable  misfortune. 

The  stigma  gone,  Hester  heaved  a  long,  Jeep  sigh,  in 
svlibh  the  burden  of  shame  and  anguish  departed  from 
her  spirit.  O  exquisite  relief!  She  had  not  known  the 
weight,  until  she  felt  the  freedom  !  By  another  impulse, 
she  took  otf  the  formal  cap  that  confined  her  hair ;  and 
liown  it  fell  upon  her  shoulders,  dark  and  rich,  with  at 
once  a  shadow  and  a  light  in  its  abundance,  and  impart 
ing  the  charm  of  softness  to  her  features.  There  played 
around  her  mouth,  and  beamed  out  of  her  eyes,  a  radiant 
and  tender  smile,  that  seemed  gushing  from  the  very 
heart  of  womanhood.  A  crimson  flush  was  glowing  on 
her  cheek,  that  had  been  long1  so  pale,- — Her~T5exrJiejL 
youth,  and  the  whole  richness  of  her  beauty,  came  back 
from  what  men  call  the  irrevocable  past,  and  clustered 
themselves,  with  her  maiden  hope,  and  a  happiness  before 
unknown,  within  the  magic  circle  of  this  hour.  And,  as 
if  the  gloom  of  the  earth  and  sky  had  been  but  the  efflu- 
'  ence  of  these  two  mortal  hearts,  it  vanished  with  their 
sorrow.  All  at  once,  as  with  a  sudden  smile  of  heaven, 
forth  burst  the  sunshine,  pouring  a  very  flood  into  the 
obscure  forest,  gladdening  each  green  leaf,  transmuting 
the  yellow  fallen  ones  to  gold,  and  gleaming  adown  the 
jray  trunks  of  the  solemn  trees.  The  obj  >cts  that  had 
made  a  shadow  hitherto,  embodied  the  brightness  now. 
The  course  of  the  little  brook  might  be  traced  by  its 
meiry  gleam  afar  into  the  wood's  heart  of  mystery,  which 
had  become  a  mystery  of  joy. 

Such  was  the  sympathy  of  Nature  — that  wild,  heathen 
\ature  of  the  forest,  nevei  subjugated  b)  human  iaw> 
nor  illumined  by  highei  truth  —with  the  bliss  of  theie  two 


23S  THE  SCARLET  LETTEK. 

spirit*!  Love,  whether  newly  born,  or  aroused  from  < 
death- like  slumber,  must  always  create  a  sunshine,  filling 
the  heart  so  full  of  radiance,  that  it  overflows  upon  tho 
outward  worlfc^HaxTthe  forest  still  kept  its  gloom,  it 
would  have  been  bright  in  Hester's  eyes,  and  bright  in 
Arthur  Dimmesdale's  ! 

Hester  locked  at  him  with  the  thrill  of  another  joy. 

"Thou  must  know  Pearl!"  said  she.  "Our  little 
Pearl!  Thou  hast  seen  her, — yes,  I  know  it!  —  but 
ihou  wilt  see  her  now  with  other  eyes.  She  is  a  strange 
child  !  I  hardly  comprehend  her !  But  thou  wilt  love 
her  dearly,  as  I  do,  and  wilt  advise  me  how  to  deal  with 
^er." 

"  Dost  thou  think  the 'child  will  be  glad  to  know  me  ? " 
asked  the  minister,  somewhat  uneasily.  "  I  have  long 
shrunk  from  children,  because  they  often  show  a  distrust, 
—  a  backwardness  to  be  familiar  with  me.  I  have  even 
been  afraid  of  little  Pearl!  " 

"  Ah,  that  was  sad !  "  answered  the  mother,  "  But 
she  will  love  thee  dearly,  and  thou  her.  She  is  not  far 
off.  I  will  call  her!  Pearl!  Pearl!" 

"  I  see  the  child,"  observed  the  minister.  "  Yonder  she 
is,  standing  in  a  streak  of  sunshine,  a  good  way  off,  on  the 
ither  side  of  the  brook.  So  thou  thinkest  the  child  will 
love  me  ? " 

Hester  smiled,  and  again  called  to  Pearl,  who  was 
visible,  at  some  distance,  as  the  miniver  had  describe! 
tier,  like  a  bright-apparelled  vision,  in  a  sunbeam,  which 
foil  down  upon  her  through  an  arch  of  boughs.  The  ray 
quivered  to  and  fro,  making  her  figure  dim  or  distinct,  — 
aow  like  a  real  child  now  like  a  child's  spirit, —  as  the 


A    FLOOD    OF    SUNSHI*8.  238 

splendor  went  and  came  again.     She  heard  her  mother's 
voice,  and  approached  slowly  through  the  forest. 

Pearl  had  not  found  the  hour  pass  wearisomely,  while 
her  mother  sat  talking  with  the  clergyman.  The  great 
black  forest  —  stem  as  it  showed  itself  tr  those  who 
brought  the  guilt  and  troubles  of  the  world  into  its 
bosom  —  became  the  playmate  of  the  lonely  infant,  as 
well  as  it  knew  how.  Sombre  as  it  was,  it  put  on  the 
kindest  of  its  moods  to  welcome  her.  It  offered  her  the 
partridge-berries,  the  growth  of  the  preceding  autumn, 
but  ripening  only  in  the  spring,  and  now  red  as  drops 
of  blood  upon  the  withered  leaves.  These  Pearl  gath 
ered,  and  was  pleased  \vith  their  wild  flavor.  The 
small  denizens  of  the  wilderness  hardly  took  pains  to 
move  out  of  her  path.  A  partridge,  indeed,  with  a 
brood  of  ten  behind  her,  ran  forward  threateningly,  but 
soon  repented  of  her  fierceness,  and  clucked  to  her 
young  ones  not  to  be  afraid.  A  pigeon,  alone  on  a  low 
branch,  allowed  Pearl  to  come  beneath,  and  uttered  a 
sound  as  much  of  greeting  as  alarm.  A  squirrel,  from 
the  lofty  depths  of  his  domestic  tree,  chattered  either  in 
anger  or  merriment,  —  for  a  squirrel  is  such  a  choleric 
and  humorous  little  personage,  that  it  is  hard  to  distin 
guish  between  his  moods, — so  he  chattered  at  the  child, 
and  flung  down  a  nut  upon  her  head.  It  was  a  last 
year's  nut,  and  already  gnawed  by  his  sharp  tooth.  A 
fox,  startled  from  his  sleep  by  her  light  footstep  on 
the  leaves,  looked  inquisitively  at  Pearl,  as  doubting 
whether  it  wer3  better  to  steal  off,  or  renew  his  nap  on 
the  same  spot.  A  wolf,  it  is  said,  —  but  here  the  tale 
Jjas  surely  lapsed  into  the  improbable,  —  came  up,  and 
smelt  of  Pearl's  robe,  and  offered  his  savage  hea.d  to 


240  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

be  patted  by  her  hand.  The  truth  seems  to  be,  how 
ever,  that  the  mother-forest,  and  these  wild  things  which 
it  nourished,  all  recognized  a  kindred  wildness  in  the 
human  child.  - 

And  she  was  gentler  here  than  in  the  grassy-margined 
streets  of  the  settlement,  or  in  her  mother's  cottage. 
The  flowers  appeared  to  know  it ;  and  one  and  another 
whispered  as  she  passed,  "Adorn  thyself  with  me,  thou 
beautiful  child  ;  adorn  thyself  with  me  !  "  —  and,  to 
please  them,  Pearl  gathered  the  violets,  and  anemones, 
and  columbines,  and  some  twigs  of  the  freshest  green, 
which  the  old  trees  held  down  before  her  eyes.  With 
these  she  decorated  her  hair,  and  her  young  waist,  and 
became  a  nymph-child,  or  an  infant  dryad,  or  whatever 
else  was  in  closest  sympathy  with  the  antique  wood.  In 
such  guise  had  Pearl  adorned  herself,  when  she  heard 
her  mother's  voice,  and  came  slowly  back. 

Slowly  ;  for  she  saw  the  clergyman  ! 


THE   CHILD   AT   THE   BROOK-SIDE.  241 

XIX. 

THE  CHILD   AT   THE   BROOK-SIDE. 

"  THOU  wilt  love  her  dearly,"  repeated  Hester  Prynne, 
as  she  and  the  minister  sat  watching  little  Pearl.  "Dost 
thou  not  think  her  beautiful*?  And  see  with  what 
natural  skill  she  has  made  those  simple  flowers  adorn 
her !  Had  she  gathered  pearls,  and  diamonds,  and 
rubies,  in  the  wood,  they  could  not  have  become  her 
better.  She  is  a  splendid  child  !  But  I  know  whose 
brow  she  has  ! " 

"Dost  thou  know,  Hester,"  said  Arthur  Dimmesdale, 
with  an  unquiet  smile,  "that  this  dear  child,  tripping 
about  always  at  thy  side,  hath  caused  me  many  an 
alarm  1  Methought  —  0  Hester,  what  a  thought  is 
that,  and  how  terrible  to  dread  it!  —  that  my  own 
features  were  partly  repeated  in  her  face,  and  so  strik 
ingly  that  the  world  might  see  them !  But  she  is 
mostly  thine ! " 

"  Xo,  no !  Not  mostly  !  "  answered  the  mother,  with  a 
tender  smile.  "A  little  longer,  and  thou  needest  not  to 
be  afraid  lo  trace  whose  child  she  is.  But  how  strangely 
beautiful  she  looks,  with  those  wild  flowers  in  her  hair! 
It  is  as  if  one  of  the  fairies,  whom  we  left  in  our  dear 
old  England,  had  decked  her  out  to  meet  us. 

It  was  with  a  feelhig  which  neither  of  them  had  ever 

before  experienced,  that  they  sat  and  watched  Pearl's 

slow  advance.     In  her  was  visible  the  tie  that  united 

them.     She  had  been  offered  to  the  world,  these  seven 

1G 


242  THE    SCARLET 


years  past,  as  the  living  hieroglyphic,  hi  which  was 
revealed  the  secret  they  so  darkly  sought  to  hide,  -  —  all 
written  in  this  symbol,  —  all  plainly  manifest,  —  had 
there  been  a  prophet  or  magician  skilled  to  read  the 
character  of  flame  !  And  Pearl  was  the  oneness  of  theii 
being.  Be  the  foregone  evil  what  it  might,  how  could 
they  doubt  that  their  earthly  lives  and  future  destinies 
were  conjoined,  when  they  beheld  at  once  the  material 
union,  and  the  spiritual  idea,  in  whom  they  met,  and 
were  to  dwell  immortally  together?  Thoughts  like 
these  —  and  perhaps  other  thoughts,  which  they  did  not 
acknowledge  or  define  —  threw  an  awe  about  the  child, 
as  she  came  onward. 

"  Let  her  see  nothing  strange  —  no  passion  nor  eager 
ness  —  in  thy  way  of  accosting  her,"  whispered  Hester. 
"  Our  Pearl  is  a  fitful  and  fantastic  little  elf,  sometimes. 
Especially,  she  is  seldom  tolerant  of  emotion,  when  she 
does  not  fully  comprehend  the  why  and  wherefore.  But 
the  child  hath  strong  affections!  She  loves  me,  and  will 
love  thee  !  " 

"  Thou  canst  not  think,"  said  the  minister,  glancing 
aside  at  Hester  Prynne,  "  how  my  heart  dreads  this  in- 
terview,  and  yearns  for  it!  But,  in  truth,  as  I  already 
cold  thee,  children  are  not  readily  won  to  be  familiar 
with  me.  They  will  not  climb  my  knee,  nor-prattle  in 
my  ear,  nor  answer  to  my  smile  ;  but  stand  apart,  and 
eye  me  strangely.  Even  little  babes,  when  I  take  them 
in  my  arms,  weep  bitterly.  Yet  Pearl,  twice  in  hel 
little  lifetime,  hath  been  kind  to  me  !  The  first  lime,  — 
thou  knowest  it  well  !  The  last  was  when  thou  ledsl 
her  with  thee  to  the  house  of  yonder  stern  old  Gov 


THE  cniL,D  AT  THE  BROOK-SIDE.         243 

i  And  thou  didst  plead  so  bravely  in  her  beftalf  and 
mine ! "  answered  the  mother.  "  I  remember  it ;  and  so 
shall  little  Pearl.  Fear  nothing !  She  may  be  strange 
and  shy  at  first,  but  will  soon  learn  to  love  thee ! " 

By  this  time  Pearl  had  reached  the  margin  of  tru* 
brook,  and  stood  on  the  further  side,  gazing  silently  at 
Hester  and  the  clergyman,  who  still  sat  together  on  the 
mossy  tree-trunk,  waiting  to  receive  her.  Jusf  where 
she  had  paused,  the  brook  chanced  to  form  a  pool,  so 
smooth  and  quiet  that  it  reflected  a  perfect  image  of  hei 
little  figure,  with  all  the  brilliant  picturesqueness  of  hei 
beauty,  in  its  adornment  of  flowers  and  wreathed  foliage, 
but  more  refined  and  spiritualized  than  the  reality. 
This  image,  so  nearly  identical  with  the  living  Pearl, 
seemed  to  communicate  somewhat  of  its  own  shadowy 
u n cLiii-Uuigibl e  j^uali ty  to  the  child  herself.  It  win 
strange,  the  way  in  whicTT  PearTstood,  looking  so  stead 
fastly  at  them  through  the  dim  medium  of  the  forest- 
gloom  ;  herself,  meanwhile,  all  glorified  with  a  ray  of 
sunshine,  that  was  attracted  thitherward  as  by  a  certain 
sympathy.  In  the  brook  beneath  stood  another  child,  — 
another  and  the  same,  —  with  likewise  its  ray  ot  golden 
light.  Hester  felt  herself,  in  some  indistinct  anr'  tanta 
lizing  manner,  estranged  from  Pearl;  as  if  the  '"hild,  in 
her  lonely  ramble  through  the  forest,  had  strayed  out  of 
the  sphere  in  which  she  and  her  mother  dweit  together, 
and  was  now  vainly  seeking  to  return  to  it. 

There  was  both  truth  and  error  in  the  impression ;  the 
?hild  and  mother  were  estranged,  but  through  Hester's 
fault,  not  Pearl's.  Since  the  latter  rambled  from  her 
side,  another  inmate  had  been  admitted  within  the  circle 
<jf  the  mother's  feelings,  and  so  modified  the  aspect  of 


U44  THE    SCARLET    LETTEu. 

them  all,  that  Pearl,  the  returning  wanderer,  could  not 
find  her  wonted  place,  and  hardly  knew  where  she  was. 

"  I  have  a  strange  fancy,"  observed  the  sensitive  min 
ister,  "that  this  brook  is  the  boundary  between  two 
worlds,  and  that  thou  canst  never  meet  thy  Pearl  again 
Or  is  she  an  elfish  spirit,  who,  as  the  legends  of  OUT 
childhool  taught  us,  is  forbidden  to  cross  a  running 
stream?  Pray  hasten  her;  for  this  delay  has  already 
imparted  a  tremor  to  my  nerves." 

"  Come,  dearest  child ! "  said  Hester,  encouragingly, 
and  stretching  out  both  her  arms.  "  How  slow  thou 
art!  When  hast  thou  been  so  sluggish  before  now? 
Here  is  a  friend  of  mine,  who  must  be  thy  friend  also. 
Thou  wilt  have  twice  as  much  love,  henceforward,  a? 
thy  mother  alone  could  give  thee !  Leap  across  the 
brook,  and  come  to  us.  Thou  canst  leap  like  a  young 
deer!" 

Pearl,  without  responding  in  any  manner  to  these 
honey-sweet  expressions,  remained  on  the  other  side  of 
the  brook.  Now  she  fixed  her  bright,  wild  eyes  on  her 
mother,  now  0*1  the  minister,  and  now  included  them 
both  in  the  same  glance ;  as  if  to  detect  and  explain  to 
herself  the  relation  which  they  bore  to  one  another. 
For  some  unaccountable  reason,  as  Arthur  Dimmesdale 
felt  the  child's  eyes  upon  himself,  his  hand  —  with  that 
gesture  so  habitual  as  to  have  become  involuntary  — 
stole  over  his  heart.  At  length,  assuming  a  singular 
air  of  authority,  Pearl  stretched  out  her  hand,  with 
the  small  forefinger  extended,  and  pointing  ev:  lentlj 
towards  her  mother's  breast.  And  beneath,  in  the  mir 
ror  of  the  brook,  there  was  the  flower-girdled  and  sunny 
image  of  little  Poarl,  pointing  her  small  forefinger  too. 


THE    ?HILL    Ar    THE    BROOK-SIDE.  245 

"  Tnou  strange  cniid,  why  dost  thou  not  come  TO 
Tie  ? "  exclaimed  Hester. 

Pearl  still  pointed  with  her  forefinger ;  and  a  frown 
gathered  on  her  brow;  the  more  impressive  from  the 
childish,  the  almost  baby-like  aspect  of  the  features  that 
conveyed  it.  As  her  mother  still  kept  beckoning  to  her, 
and  arraying  her  face  in  a  holiday  suit  of  unaccustomed 
smiles,  the  child  stamped  her  foot  with  a  yet  more  impe 
rious  look  and  gesture.  In  the  brook,  again,  was  the 
fantastic  beauty  of  the  image,  with  its  reflected  frown,  its 
pjinted  finger,  and  imperious  gesture,  giving  emphasis 
to  the  aspect  of  little  Pearl. 

"  Hasten,  Pearl ;  or  I  shall  be  angry  with  thee ! " 
cried  Hester  Prynne,  who,  however  inured  to  such 
behavior  on  the  elf-child's  part  at  other  seasons,  was 
naturally  anxious  for  a  more  seemly  deportment  now. 
"  Leap  across  the  brook,  naughty  child,  and  run  hither ! 
Else  I  must  come  to  thee ! " 

But  Pearl,  not  a  whit  startled  at  her  mother's  threats, 
any  more  than  mollified  by  her  entreaties,  now  suddenly 
burst  into  a  fit  of  passion,  gesticulating  violently,  and 
throwing  her  small  figure  into  the  most  extravagant  con 
tortions.  She  accompanied  this  wild  outbreak  with  pierc 
ing  shrieks,  which  the  woods  reverberated  on  all  sides ; 
so  that,  alone  as  she  was  in  her  childish  and  unreasona 
ble  wrath,  it  seemed  as  if  a  hidden  multitude  were  lend 
ing  her  their  sympathy  and  encouragement.  Seen  in 
the  brook,  once  more,  was  the  shadowy  wrath  of  Pearl's 
image,  crowned  and  girdled  with  flowers,  but  stamping 
its  foot,  wildly  gesticulating,  and,  in  the  midst  of  all- 
still  pointing  its  small  forefinger  at  Hester's  bosom! 

"  1  see  what  ails  the  child,"  whispered   Hester  to  toe 


246  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

clerg}  man,  and  turning  pale  in  spite  of  a  strong  effort 
to  conceal  her  trouble  and  annoyance.  "  Children  will 
not  abide  any,  the  slightest,  change  in  the  accustomed 
aspect  of  things  that  are  daily  before  their  eyes.  Pearl 
misses  something  which  she  has  always  seen  me  wear !  " 

"  I  pray  you,"  answered  the  minister,  "  if  thou  hast 
any  means  of  pacifying  the  child,  do  it  forthwith  !  Save 
it  were  the  cankered  wrath  of  an  old  witch,  like  Mistress 
Hibbins,"  added  he,  attempting  to  smile,  "  I  know  noth 
ing  that  I  would  not  sooner  encounter  than  this  passion 
in  a  child.  In  Pearl's  young  beauty,  as  in  the  wrinkled 
witch,  it  has  a  preternatural  effect.  Pacify  her,  if  thou 
tovest  me ! " 

Hester  turned  again  towards  Pearl,  with  a  crimson 
blush  upon  her  cheek,  a  conscious  glance  aside  at  the 
clergyman,  and  then  a  heavy  sigh ;  while,  even  before 
she  had  time  to  speak,  tlfe  blush  yielded  to  a  deadly 
pallor. 

"Pearl,"  said  she,  sadly,  "look  down  at  thy  feet! 
There  !— before  thee  !  —  on  the  hither  side  of  the 
brook !  " 

The  child  turned  her  eyes  to  the  point  indicated  ;  and 
there  lay  the  scarlet  letter,  so  close  upon  the  margin  of 
the  stream,  that  the  gold  embroidery  was  reflected  in  it. 

"  Bring  it  hither  !  "  said  Hester. 

"  Come  thou  and  take  it  up  !  "  answered  Pearl. 

"  Was  ever  such  a  child !  "  observed  Hester,  aside  to 
the  minister.  "  O,  I  have  much  to  tell  thee  about  her ! 
But,  in  very  truth,  she  is  right  as  regards  this  hateftu 
token.  I  must  bear  its  torture  yet  a  little  longer,  — 
only  a  few  days  longer,  —  until  we  shall  have  left  this 
region,  and  look  back  hither  as  to  a  land  which  we  have 


THE    CllV^D   AT   THE    BROOK-SIDE.  241 

dreamed  of.  The  forest  cannot  hide  it !  The  mid-ocean 
shall  take  it  from  my  hand,  and  swallow  it  up  forever  !  " 

With  these  words,  she  advanced  to  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  took  up  the  scarlet  letter,  and  fastened  it  again 
into  her  bosom.  Hopefully,  but  a  moment  ago,  .is 
Hester  had  spoken  of  drowning  it  in  the  deep  sea,  there 
was  a  sense  of  inevitable  doom  upon  her,  as  she  thus 
received  back  this  deadly  symbol  from  the  hand  of  fate. 
She  had  flung  it  into  infinite  space  !  —  she  had  drawn 
an  hour's  free  breath  !  —  and  here  again  was  the  scarlet 
misery,  glittering  on  the  old  spot !  So  it  ever  is,  whether 
thus  typified  or  no,  that  an  evil  deed  invests  itself  with 
the  character  of  doom.  Hester  next  gathered  up  the 
heavy  tresses  of  her  hair,  and  confined  them  beneath  her 
cap.  As  if  there  were  a  withering  spell  in  the  sad  let 
ter,  her  beauty,  the  warmth  and  richness  of  her  woman- 
Aood,  departed,  like  fading  sunshine ;  and  a  gray  shadow 
seemed  to  fall  across  her. 

When  the  dreary  change  was  wrought,  she  extended 
her  hand  to  Pearl. 

"  Dost  thou  know  thy  mother  now,  child  ? "  asked 
she,  reproachfully,  but  with  a  subdued  tone.  "Wilt 
thou  come  across  the  brook,  and  owrn  thy  mother,  now 
that  she  has  her  shame  upon  her,  —  now  that  she  is 
sad?" 

"  Yes  ;  now  I  will !  "  answered  the  child,  bounding 
across  the  brook,  and  clasping  Hester  in  her  arms. 
"  Now  thou  art  my  mother  indeed !  And  I  am  thy 
little  Pearl ! " 

In  a  mood  of  tenderness  that  was  not  usual  with  her. 
she  drew  down  her  mother's  head,  and  kissed  her  brow 
and  both  her  cheeks.  But  then- — by  a  knui  of  Deces 


248  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

sity  that  always  impelled  this  child  to  aLoy  whatever 
comfort  she  might  chance  to  give  with  a  throb  of  an 
guish —  Pearl  put  up  her  mouth,  and  kissed  the  scarlet 
letter  too ! 

."That  was  not  kind!"  said  Hester.  "When  thou 
hast  shown  me  a  little  love,  thou  mockest  me ! " 

"  Why  doth  the  minister  sit  yonder  ?  "  asked  Pearl. 

"  He  waits  to  welcome  thee,"  replied  her  mother. 
;1  Come  thou,  and  entreat  his  blessing !  He  loves  thee., 
my  little  Pearl,  and  loves  thy  mother  too.  Wilt  thou 
not  love  him  ?  Come  !  he  longs  to  greet  thee  ! " 

"  Doth  he  love  us  ? "  said  Pearl,  looking  up.  with 
acute  intelligence,  into  her  mother's  face.  "  Will  he  go- 
back  with  us,  hand  in  hand,  we  three  together,  into  the 
town  ? " 

"  Not  now,  dear  child,"  answered  Hester.  "  But  in 
days  to  come  he  will  walk  hand  in  hand  with  us.  We 
will  have  a  home  and  fireside  of  our  own ;  and  thou 
shalt  sit  upon  his  knee  ;  and  he  will  teach  thee  many 
things,  and  love  thee  dearly.  Thou  wilt  love  him ;  wilt 
thou  not  ? " 

"  And  will  he  always  keep  his  hand  over  his  heart  ? " 
inquired  Pearl. 

"  Foolish  child,  what  a  question  is  that !  "  exclaimed 
her  mother.  "  Come  and  ask  his  blessing  !  " 

But,  whether  influenced  by  the  jealousy  that  seems 
instinctive  with  every  petted  child  towards  a  dangerous 
rival,  or  from  whatever  caprice  of  her  freakish  nature. 
Pearl  womd  show  no  favor  to  the  clergyman.  It  was 
only  by  an  exertion  of  force  that  her  mother  brought 
her  up  to  him,  hanging  hack,  and  manifesting  her  reluc 
tance  bv  odd  grimaces;  of  which,  ever  since  her  baby 


flCE    CHILD    AT    THE    BROOK-SIDE.  249 

hood,  she  had  possessed  a  singular  variety,  and  could 
transform  her  mobile  physiognomy  into  a  series  of  differ 
ent  aspects,  with  a  new  mischief  in  them,  each  and  all. 
The  minister  —  painfully  embarrassed,  but  hoping  thai 
a  kiss  might  prove  a  talisman  to  admit  him  intc  the 
child's  kindlier  regards  — •  bent  forward,  and  impressed 
one  on  her  brow.  Hereupon,  Pearl  broke  away  from 
her  mother,  and,  running  to  the  brook,  stooped  over  it, 
and  bathed  her  forehead,  until  the  unwelcome  kiss  \vas 
quite  washed  off,  and  diffused  through  a  long  lapse  of 
the  gliding  water.  She  then  remained  apart,  silently 
watching  Hester  and  the  clergyman ;  while  they  talked 
together,  and  made  such  arrangements  as  were  sug 
gested  by  their  new  position,  and  the  purposes  soon  to 
be  fulfilled. 

And  now  this  fateful  interview  had  come  to  a  close. 
The  dell  was  to  be  left  a  solitude  among  its  dark,  old 
trees,  which,  with  their  multitudinous  tongues,  would 
whisper  long  of  what  had  passed  there,  and  no  mortal 
be  the  wiser.  And  the  melancholy  brook  would  add  this 
other  tale  to  the  mystery  with  which  its  little  heart  was 
already  overburdened,  and  whereof  it  still  kept  up  a  mur 
muring  babble,  with  not  a  whit  more  cheerfulness  of  tf  ne 
than  for  ages  heretofore. 


THL    SCARLET    LKTTWU 


XX. 

THE  MINISTER  IN  A  MAZE. 

As  the  minister  departed,  in  advance  of  HcstcT  Pfyima 
and  little  Pearl,  he  threw  a  backward  glance ;  half  ex 
pecting  that  he  should  discover  only  some  faintly  traced 
features  or  outline  of  the  mother  and  the  child,  slowly 
fading  into  the  twilight  of  the  woods.  So  great  a  vicis 
situde  in  his  life  could  not  at  once  be  received  as  real. 
But  there  was  Hester,  clad  in  her  gray  robe,  still  stand 
ing  beside  the  tree-trunk,  which  some  blast  had  over 
thrown  a  long  antiquity  ago,  and  which  time  had  ever 
since  been  covering  with  moss,  so  that  these  two  fated 
ones,  with  earth's  heaviest  burden  on  them,  might  there 
sit  down  together,  and  find  a  single  hour's  rest  and 
solace.  And  there  was  Pearl,  too,  lightly  dancing  from 
the  margin  of  the  brook, —  now  that  the  intrusive  third 
person  was  gone,  —  and  taking  her  old  place  by  hei 
mother's  side.  So  the  minister  had  not  fallen  asleep, 
und  dreamed  ! 

In  order  to  free  his  mind  from  this  indistinctness  and 
duplicity  of  impression,  which  vexed  it  with  a  strange 
disquietude,  he  recalled  and  more  thoroughly  defined 
the  plans  which  Hester  and  himself  had  sketched  foi 
their  departure.  It  had  be«m  determined  between  them, 
that  the  Old  World,  with  its  crowds  and  cities,  offered 
them  a  more  eligible  shelter  and  concealment  than  the 
wilds  of  New  England,  or  all  America,  with  its  alter 
natives  of  an  Indian  wigwam,  or  the  few  settlements  of 


THE    MINISTER    LN    A    MAZE  251 

Europeans,  scattered  thiuty  along  the  seaboard.  Not 
to  speak  of  the  clergyman's  health,  so  inadequate  to  sus 
tain  the  hardships  of  a  forest  life,  his  native  gifts,  his 
culture,  and  his  entire  development,  would  secure  him  a 
Home  only  in  the  midst  of  civilization  and  refinement ; 
the  higher  the  state,  the  more  delicately  adapted  to  it 
the  man.  In  furtherance  of  this  choice,  it  so  happened 
that  a  ship  lay  in  the  harbor ;  one  of  those  questionable 
cruisers,  frequent  at  that  day,  which,  without  being  ab 
solutely  outlaws  of  the  deep,  yet  roamed  over  its  surface 
with  a  remarkable  irresponsibility  of  character.  This 
yessel  had  recently  arrived  from  the  Spanish  Main,  and, 
within  three  days'  time,  would  sail  for  Bristol.  Hester 
Prynne  —  whose  vocation,  as  a  self-enlisted  Sister  of 
Charity,  had  brought  her  acquainted  with  the  captain 
and  crew  —  could  take  upon  herself  to  secure  the  pas 
sage  of  two  individuals  and  a  child,  with  all  the  secrecy 
which  circumstances  rendered  more  than  desirable. 

The  minister  had  inquired  of  Hester,  with  no  little 
interest,  the  precise  time  at  which  the  vessel  might  be 
expected  to  depart.  It  would  probably  be  on  the  fourth 
day  from  the  present.  "  That  is  most  fortunate  ! "  he 
had  then  said  to  himself.  Now,  why  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dimmesdale  considered  it  so  very  fortunate,  we  hesitate 
to  reveal.  Nevertheless,  —  to  hold  nothing  back  from 
the  reader,  —  it  was  because,  on  the  third  da}r  from  the 
present,  he  was  to  preach  the  Election  Sermon;  and,  as 
such  an  occasion  formed  an  honorable  epoch  in  the  life 
of  a  New  England  clergyman,  he  could  not  have  chanced 
upon  a  more  suitable  mode  and  time  of  terminating  hia 
professional  career.  "  At  least,  they  shall  say  of  me," 
thought  this  exemplary  man,  "  that  I  leave  no  public 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

duty  unperformed,  nor  ill  performed!"  Sad,  in leeu, 
that  an  introspection  so  profound  and  acute  as  this  pool 
minister's  should  be  so  miserably  deceived  !  \Ve  have 
had,  and  may  still  have,  worse  things  to  tell  of  him;  but 
none,  we  apprehend,  so  pitiably  weak ;  no  evidence,  at 
cmce  so  slight  and  irrefragable,  of  a  subtle  disease,  that 
had  long  since  begun  to  eat  into  the  real  substance  of 
his  character.  No  man^Jor  jmy_co»siderable  period,  can 
wear  ojie_iace_  to i  himself,  and  ariother-to  the  multitude, 
without  finally  getting  bewildered  as  to  which  may  be 
the  true. 

The  excitement  of  Mr.  Dirnmesdale's  feelings,  as  he 
returned  from  his  interview  with  Hester,  lent  him  unac 
customed  physical  energy,  and  hurried  him  townward  at 
H  rapid  pace.  The  pathway  among  the  woods  seemed 
wilder,  mor^  uncouth  with  its  rude  natural  obstacles,  and 
less  trodden  by  the  foot  of  man,  than  L  >  remembered  it 
on  his  outward  journey.  But  he  leaped  across  the  plashy 
places,  thrust  himself  through  the  clinging  underbrush, 
climbed  the  ascent,  plunged  into  the  hollow,  and  over 
came,  in  short,  all  the  difficulties  of  the  track,  with  an 
tmweariable  activity  that  astonished  him.  He  could  not 
but  recall  how  feebly,  and  with  what  frequent  pauses  foi 
breath,  he  had  toiled  over  the  same  ground,  only  two 
days  before.  As  he  drew  near  the  town,  he  took  an 
impression  of  change  from  the  series  of  familiar  objects 
that  presented  themselves.  It  seemed  not  yesterday,  not 
one,  nor  two,  but  many  days,  or  even  years  ago,  since 
he  had  quitted  them.  There,  indeed,  was  each  formei 
trace  of  the  street,  as  he  remembered  it,  and  all  the  pecu 
liarities  of  the  houses,  with  the  due  multitude  of  gable- 
peaks,  arid  a  weather-rock  at  every  point  where  his 


THE    MINISTER    IN    A   MAZE.  253 

memory  suggested  one.  Not  the  less,  iowever,  came 
this  importunately  obtrusive  sense  of  change.  The  same 
was  true  as  regarded  the  acquaintances  whom  he  met, 
and  all  the  well-known  shapes  of  human  life,  about  the 
little  town.  They  looked  neither  older  nor  jouugei 
now ;  the  beards  of  the  aged  were  no  whiter,  nor  could 
the  creeping  babe  of  yesterday  walk  on  his  feet  to-day ; 
it  was  impossible  to  describe  in  what  respect  they  differed 
from  the  individuals  on  whom  he  had  so  recently  be 
stowed  a  parting  glance ;  and  yet  the  minister's  deepest 
sense  seemed  to  inform  him  of  their  mutability.  A  sim 
ilar  impression  struck  him  most  remarkably,  as  he  passed 
under  the  walls  of  his  own  church.  The  edifice  had  so 
very  strange,  and  yet  so  familiar,  a**  aspect,  that  Mr. 
Dimmesdale's  mind  vibrated  between  two  ideas ;  either 
that  he  had  seen  it  only  in  a  dream  hitherto,  or  that  he 
was  merely  dreaming  about  it  now. 

This  phenomenon,  in  the,  various  shapes  which  it  as 
sumed,  indicated  no  external  change,  but  so  sudden  and 
important  a  change  in  the  spectator  of  the  familiar  scene, 
that  the  intervening  space  of  a  single  dpy  had  operated 
on  his  consciousness  like  the  lapse  of  ye.irs.  The  min 
ister's  own  will,  and  Hester's  will,  and  the  fate  that  grew 
between  them,  had  wrought  this  transformation.  It  was 
the  same  town  as  heretofore ;  but  the  same  minister 
returned  not  from  the  forest.  He  might  have  said  to  the 
friends  who  greeted  him,  —  "I  am  not  the  Tian  for  whom 
you  take  me !  I  left  him  yonder  in  the  forest,  withdrawn 
into  a  secret  dell,  by  a  mossy  tree-trunk,  and  near  a  mel 
ancholy  brook !  Go,  seek  your  minister,  and  see  if  his 
emaciated  figure,  his  thin  cheek,  his  white,  heavy,  pain* 
wrinkled  brow,  be  not  fli»ng  down  ther«,  'ik  a  '.a&t-off 


254  YHE    SCARLET    LETTEB 

garment ! "  His  friends,  no  doubt,  would  still  have  in 
sisted  with  him,  — : "  Thou  art  thyself  the  man ! "  —  but 
.the  error  would  have  been  their  own,  not  his. 

Before  Mr.  Dimmesdale  reached  home,  his  inner  man 
gave  him  other  evidences  of  a  revolution  in  the  sphere 
of  thought  arid  feeling.  In  truth,  nothing  short  of  a  total 
change  of  dynasty  and  moral  code,  in  that  interior  king 
dom,  was  adequate  to  account  for  the  impulses  now  com 
municated  to  the  unfortunate  and  startled  minister.  At 
every  step  he  was  incited  to  do  some  strange,  wild, 
wicked  thing  or  other,  with  a  sense  that  it  would  be  at 
once  involuntary  and  intentional ;  in  spite  of  himself,  yet 
growing  out  of  a  profounder  self  than  that  which  opposed 
the  impulse.  For  instance,  he  met  one  of  his  own  dea 
cons.  The  good  old  man  addressed  him  with  the  pater 
nal  affection  and  patriarchal  privilege,  which  his  venera 
ble  age,  his  upright  and  holy  character,  and  his  station 
in  the  Church,  entitled  him  to  use ;  and,  conjoined  with 
this,  the  deep,  almost  worshipping  respect,  which  the 
minister's  professional  and  private  claims  alike  demanded. 
Never  was  there  a  more  beautiful  example  of  how  the 
majesty  of  age  and  wisdom  may  comport  with  the  obei- 
zance  and  respect  enjoined  upon  it,  as  from  a  lower  social 
rank,  and  inferior  order  of  endowment,  towards  a  higher. 
Now,  during  a  conversation  of  some  two  or  three  moments 
between  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  and  this  excellent 
and  hoary-bearded  deacon,  it  was  only  by  the  most  care 
ful  self-control  that  the  former  could  refrain  from  uttering 
certain  blasphemous  suggestions  that  rose  into  his  mind, 
respecting  the  communion-supper.  He  absolutely  trem 
bled  and  turned  pale  as  ashes,  lest  his  tongue  should 
wag  itself,  in  utterance  of  these  horrible  matters,  and 


THE    MINISTER    IN    A   MAZE.  255 

plead  his  own  consent  for  so  doing,  without  his  having 
fairly  given  it.  And,  even  with  this  terror  in  his  heart 
he  could  hardly  avoid  laughing,  to  imagine  how  the  sanc 
tified  old  patriarchal  deacon  would  have  been  petrified 
by  his  mir  ister's  impiety  ! 

Again,  another  incident  of  the  same  nature.  Hurry 
ing  along  the  street,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale 
encountered  the  eldest  female  member  of  his  church ;  a 
most  pious  and  exemplary  old  dame ;  poor,  widowed, 
lonely,  and  with  a  heart  as  full  of  reminiscences  about 
her  dead  husband  and  children,  and  her  dead  friends  of 
long  ago,  as  a  burial-ground  is  full  of  storied  grave 
stones..  Yet  all  this,  which  would  else  have  been  such 
heavy  sorrow,  was  made  almost  a  solemn  joy  to  her 
devout  old  soul,  by  religious  consolations  and  the  truths 
of  Scripture,  wherewith  she  had  fed  herself  continually 
for  more  than  thirty  years.  And,  since  Mr.  Dimmesdale 
had  taken  her  in  charge,  the  good  grandam's  chief  earthly 
comfort  —  which,  anless  it  had  been  likewise  a  heavenly 
comfort,  could  have  been  none  at  all  —  was  to  meet  her 
pastor,  whether  casually,  or  of  set  purpose,  and  be  re 
freshed  with  a  word  of  warm,  fragrant,  heaven-breathing 
Gospel  truth,  from  his  beloved  lips,  into  her  dulled,  but 
rapturously  attentive  ear.  But,  on  this  occasion,  up  to 
the  moment  of  putting  his  lips  to  the  old  woman's  ear, 
Mr.  Dimmesdale,  as  the  great  enemy  of  souls  would 
have  it,  could  recall  no  text  of  Scripture,  nor  aught  else, 
except  a  brief,  pithy,  and,  as  it  then  appeared  to  him, 
unanswerable  argument  against  the  immortality  of  the 
Atiman  soul.  The  instilment  thereof  into  her  mind 
mmld  probably  have  caused  this  aged  sister  to  drop 
down  dead,  at  once,  as  by  the  effect  of  an  intensely  poi 


l  THE    SCARLET   LETTEK 

sonous  infusion.  What  he  really  did  whisper,  the  mn. 
ister  could  never  afterwards  recollect.  There  was,  per 
haps,  a  fortunate  disorder  in  his  utterance,  which  failea 
to  impart  any  distinct  idea  to  the  good  widow's  compre 
hension,  or  which  Providence  interpreted  after  a  method 
of  its  own.  Assuredly,  as  the  minister  looked  back,  he 
beheld  an  expression  of  divine  gratitude  and  ecstasy  that 
seemed  like  the  shine  of  the  celestial  city  on  her  face,  so 
wrinkLed  and  ashy  pale. 

Again,  a  third  instance.  After  parting  from  the  old 
church-member,  he  met  the  youngest  sister  of  them  all. 
It  was  a  maiden  newly  won  —  and  won  by  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Dimmesdale's  own  sermon,  on  the  Sabbath  after  his 
vigil  —  to  barter  the  transitory  pleasures  of  the  world  for 
the  heavenly  hope,  that  was  to  assume  brighter  substance 
as  life  grew  dark  around  her,  and  which  would  gild  the 
utter  gloom  with  final  glory.  She  was  fair  and  pure  as 
a  lily  that  had  bloomed  in  Paradise.  The  minister  knew 
well  that  he  was  himself  enshrined  within  the  stainless 
sanctity  of  her  heart,  which  hung  its  snowy  curtains 
about  his  image,  imparting  to  religion  the  warmth  of 
love,  and  to  love  a  religious  purity.  Satan,  that  after 
noon,  had  surely  led  the  poor  young  girl  away  from  her 
mother's  side,  and  thrown  her  into  the  pathway  of  this 
sorely  tempted,  or  —  shall  we  not  rather  say  ?  —  this  lost 
and  desperate  man.  As  she  drew  nigh,  the  arch-fiend 
whispered  him  to  condense  into  small  compass  and  drop 
into  her  tender  bosom  a  germ  of  evil  that  would  be  sure 
to  blossom  darkly  soon,  and  bear  black  fruit  betimes 
Such  was  his  sense  of  power-over  tnis  virgin  soul,  trust 
ing  him  as  she  did,  that  the  minister  felt  potent  to  blighl 
all  the  ^eld  of  innocence  with  but  one  wicked  look,  and 


THE    MINISTER    IN    A    MAZE.  2£T 

develop  all  its  opposite  with  but  a  word.  So  —  with  a 
mightier  struggle  than  he  had  yet  sustained  —  he  held 
his  Geneva  cloak  before  his  face,  and  hurried  onward, 
making  no  sign  of  recognition,  and  leaving  the  young 
sister  to  digest  his  rudeness  as  she  might.  She  ran 
sacked  her  conscience,  —  which  was  full  of  harmless  lit* 
tl ;  matters,  like  her  pocket  or  her  work-bag,  —  and  took 
herself  to  task,  poor  thing !  for  a  thousand  imaginary 
faults ;  and  went  about  her  household  duties  with  swol 
len  eyelids  the  next  morning. 

Before  the  minister  had  time  to  celebrate  his  victory 
aver  this  last  temptation,  he  was  conscious  of  another 
impulse,  more  ludicrous,  and  almost  as  horrible.  It  was, 
—  we  blush  to  tell  it,  —  it  was  to  stop  short  in  the  road, 
and  teach  some  very  wicked  words  to  a  knot  of  little 
Puritan  children  who  were  playing  there,  and  had  but 
just  begun  to  talk.  Denying  himself  this  freak,  as 
anwortny  of  his  cloth,  he  met  a  drunken  seaman,  one  of 
the  ship's  crew  from  the  Spanish  Main.  And,  here, 
since  he  had  so  valiantly  forborne  all  other  wickedness, 
poor  Mr.  Dimmesdale  longed,  at  least,  to  shake  hands 
with  the  tarry  blackguard,  and  recreate  himself  with  a 
few  improper  jests,  such  as  dissolute  sailors  so  abound 
with,  and  a  volley  of  good,  round  solid,  satisfactory,  and 
heaven-defying  oaths  !  It  was  not  so  much  a  better 
principle  as  partly  his  natural  good  taste,  and  still  more 
his  buckramed  habit  of  clerical  decorum,  that  carried  him 
safely  through  the  latter  crisis. 

"What  is  it  that  haunts  and  tempts  me  thus?"  cried 

the  minister  to  himself,  at  length,  pausing  in  the  street, 

and  striking  his   hand  against  his   forehead.     "Am  I 

mad?  or  am  I  given  over  utterly  to  the  fiend9     Did  I 

17 


JJ58  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

make  a  contract  with  him  in  the  forest,  and  s^n  it  with 
my  blood  ?  And  does  he  now  summon  me  to  its  fulfil 
ment,  by  suggesting  the  performance  of  every1  wickedness 
which  his  most  foul  imagination  can  conceive  ?  " 

At  the  moment  when  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesda/e 
thus  communed  with  himself,  and  struck  hi's  forehead 
with  his  hand,  old  Mistress  Hibbins,  the  reputed  witch- 
lady,  is  said  to  have  been  passing  by.  She  made  a 
very  grand  appearance;  having  on  a  high  head-dress, 
a  rich  gown  of  velvet,  and  a  ruff  done  up  with  the 
famous  yellow  starch,  of  which  Ann  Turner,  her  especial 
friend,  had  taught  her  the  secret,  before  this  last  good 
lady  had  been  hanged  for  Sir  Thomas  Overbury's 
murder.  Whether  the  witch  had  read  the  minister's 
thoughts,  or  no,  she  came  to  a  full  stop,  looked  shrewdly 
into  his  face,  smiled  craftily,  and  —  though  little  given 
to  converse  with  clergymen  —  began  a  conversation. 

"  So,  reverend  Sir,  you  have  made  a. visit  into  the 
forest,"  observed  the  witch-lady,  nodding  her  high  head 
dress  at  him.  "  The  next  time,  I  pray  you  to  allow  me 
only  a  fair  warning,  and  I  shall  be  proud  to  bear  you 
company.  Without  taking  overmuch  upon  myself,  my 
good  word  will  go  far  towards  gaining  any  strange  gentle* 
man  a  fair  reception  from  yonder  potentate  you  wot  of" ' 

"  I  profess,  madam,"  answered  the  clergyman,  Arith 
a  grave  obeisance,  such  as  the  lady's  rank  demanded, 
and  his  own  good-breeding  made  imperative,  —  "I  pro 
fess,  on  my  conscience  and  character,  that  I  am  utte  *ly 
bewildered  as  touching  the  purport  of  your  words !  j 
went  not  into  the  forest  to  seefc  a  potentate ;  neither  do 
I,  at  any  future  time,  design  a  visit  thither,  with  a  view 
to  gaining  the  favor  of  such  personage.  My  one  suffi 


THE    MINISTER    IN    A   MAZE.  259 

cfent  object  was  to  greet  that  pious  friend  of  mine,  the 
Apostle  Eliot,  and  rejoice  with  him  over  the  many 
precious  souls  he  hath  won  from  heathendom ! " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  "  cackled  the  old  witch-lady,  still  nod 
ding  her  high  head-dress  at  the  minister.  "  Well,  well, 
we  must  needs  talk  thus  in  the  daytime !  You  carry 
it  off  lik«»  an  old  hand!  But  at  midnight,  and  in  the 
forest,  we  shall  have  other  talk  together ! " 

She  passed  on  with  her  aged  stateliness,  but  often 
turning  back  her  head  and  smiling  at  him,  like  one 
willing  to  recognize  a  secret  intimacy  of  connection. 

"  Have  I  then  sold  myself,"  thought  the  minister,  "to 
the  fiend  whom,  if  men  say  true,  this  yellow-starched 
and  velveted  old  hag  has  chosen  for  her  prince  and 
master ! " 

The  wretched  minister!  He  had  made  a  bargain 
very  like  it!  Tempted  by  a  dream  of  happiness,  he 
had  yielded  himself,  with  deliberate  choice,  as  he  had 
never  done  before,  to  what  he  knew  was  deadly  sin. 
And  the  infectious  poison  of  that  sin  had  been  tnus 
rapidly  diffused  throughout  his  moral  system.  It  had 
stupefied  all  blessed  impulses,  and  awakened  into  vivid 
life  the  whole  brotherhood  of  bad  ones.  Scorn,  bitter 
ness,  unprovoked  malignity,  gratuitous  desire  of  ill. 
ridicule  of  whatever  was  good  and  holy,  all  awoke,  to 
tempt,  even  while  they  frightened  him.  And  his  en 
counter  with  old  Mistress  Hibbins,  if  it  were  a  real 
incident,  did  but  show  his  sympathy  and  fellowship  with 
wicked  mortals,  and  the  world  of  perverted  spirits. 

He  had,  by  this  time,  reached  his  dwelling,  on  the 
odge  of  the  burial-ground,  and,  hastening  up  the  stairs, 
took  refuge  in  his  study.  Tbe  minister  was  glad  to 


-60  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

have  reached  this  shelter,  without  first  betraying  him 
self  to  the  world  by  any  of  those  strange  and  wicked 
eccentricities  to  which  he  had  been  continually  impelled 
while  passing  through  the  streets.  He  entered  the 
accustomed  room,  and  looked  around  him  on  its  books, 
its  windows,  its  fireplace,  and  the  tapestried  comfort  of 
the  walls,  with  the  same  perception  of  strangeness  that 
had  haunted  him  throughout  his  walk  from  the  forest- 
dell  into  the  town,  and  thitherward.  Here  he  had 
studied  and  written ;  here,  gone  through  fast  and  vigil, 
ind  come  forth  half  alive ;  here,  striven  to  pray ;  here, 
borne  i  hundred  thousand  agonies!  There  was  the 
Bible,  in  its  rich  old  Hebrew,  with  Moses  and  the  Proph 
ets  speaking  to  him,  and  God's  voice  through  all! 
There,  on  the  table,  with  the  inky  pen  beside  it,  was  an 
unfinished  sermon,  with  a  sentence  broken  in  the  midst, 
where  his  thoughts  had  ceased  to  gush  out  upon  the 
page,  two  days  before.  He  knew  that  it  was  himself, 
the  thin  and  white-cheeked  minister,  who  had  done  and 
suffered  these  things,  and  written  thus  far  into  the  Elec 
don  Sermon!  But  he  seemed  to  stand  apart,  and  eye 
this  former  self  with  scornful,  pitying,  but  half-envious 
curiosity.  That  self  was  gone.  Another  man  had  re 
turned  out  of  the  forest ;  a  wiser  one  ;  with  a  knowledge 
of  hidden  mysteries  which  the  simplicity  of  the  forrnei 
never  could  have  reached.  A  bitter  kind  of  knowledge 
that! 

While  occupied  with  these  reflections,  a  knock  came 
at  the  door  of  the  study,  and  the  minister  said,  "  Como 
in .' "  —  not  wholly  devoid  of  an  idea  that  he  mighl 
behold  an  evil  spirit.  And  so  he  did  !  It  was  old  Roger 
Chillinffworlh  that  tnt-ered.  The  minister  stood,  white 


THE    MINISTER    IN    A    MAZE.  261 

ind  soeochless,  with  one  hand  on  the  Hebrew  Scripture^ 
ind  the  other  spread  upon  his  breast. 

"  Welcome  home,  reverend  Sir,"  said  the  physician. 
"  And  how  found  you  that  godly  man,  the  Apostle  Eliot ! 
But  methinks,  dear  Sir,  you  look  pale  ;  as  if  the  travel 
through  the  wilderness  had  been  too  sore  for  you.  .  Will 
not  my  aid  be  requisite  to  put  you  in  heart  and  strength 
to  preach  your  Election  Sermon  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  think  not  so,"  rejoined  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dimmesdale.  "  My  journey,  and  the  sight  of  the  holy 
Apostle  yonder,  and  the  free  air  which  I  have  breathed, 
iiave  done  me  good,  after  so  long  confinement  in  my 
study.  I  think  to  need  no  more  of  your  drugs,  my  kind 
physician,  good  though  they  be,  and  administered  by  a 
friendly  hand." 

All  this  time,  Roger  Chillingworth  was  looking  at  the 
minister  with  the  grave  and  intent  regard  of  a  physician 
towards  his  patient.  But,  in  spite  of  this  outward  show, 
the  latter  was  almost  convinced  of  the  old  man's  know?- 
edge,  or,  at  least,  his  confident  suspicion,  with  respect  to 
his  own  interview  with  Hester  Prynne.  The  physician 
knew  then,  that,  in  the  minister's  regard,  he  was  no 
Vmger  a  trusted  friend,  but  his  bitterest  enemy.  So 
much  being  known,  it  would  appear  natural  that  a  part 
of  it  should  be  expressed.  It  is  singular,  however,  how 
long  a  lime  often  passes  before  words  embody  things ; 
and  with  what  security  two  persons,  who  choose  to  avoid 
a  certain  subject,  may  approach  its  very  verge,  and  retire 
withoJt  disturbing  it.  Thas,  the  minister  felt  no  ap 
prehension  that  Roger  Chillingworth  would  touch,  in 
express  words,  upon  the  real  position  which  they  sug 


262  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

tained  towards  one  another.  Yet  did  the  physician,  ir 
nis  dark  way,  creep  frightfully  near  the  secret. 

"Were  it  not  better,"  said  he,  "that  you  use  my 
poor  skill  to-night?  Verily,  dear  Sir,  we  must  take 
pains  to  make  you  strong  and  vigorous  for  this  occasion 
of  the  Election  discourse.  The  people  look  for  great 
things  from  you ;  apprehending  that  another  year  may 
come  about,  and  find  their  pastor  gone." 

"  Yea,  to  another  world,"  replied  the  minister,  with 
pious  resignation.  "  Heaven  gi-ant  it  be  a  better  one ; 
for,  in  good  sooth,  I  hardly  think  to  tarry  with  my  flock 
through  the  flitting  seasons  of  another  year!  But, 
touching  your  medicine,  kind  Sir,  in  my  present  frame 
of  body,  I  need  it  not." 

"  I  joy  to  hear  it,"  answered  the  physician.  "  It  may 
be  that  my  remedies,  so  long  administered  in  vain,  begin 
now  to  take  due  effect.  Happy  man  were  I,  and  well 
deserving  of  New  England's  gratitude,  could  I  achieve 
this  cure ! " 

"  I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  most  watchful  friend," 
said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  with  a  solemn 
smile.  "  I  thank  you,  and  ran  but  requite  your  good 
deeds  with  my  prayers." 

"  A  good  man's  prayers  are  golden  recompense ! ' 
rejoined  old  Roger  Chillingworth,  as  he  took  his  leave. 
"  Yea,  they  are  the  current  gold  coin  of  the  New  Jeru 
salem,  with  the  King's  own  mint-mark  on  them !  " 

Left  alone,  the  minister  summoned  a  servant  of  the 
house,  and  requested  food,  which,  being  set  before  him 
he  ate  with  ravenous  appetite.  Then,  flinging  the 
a  ready  written  pages  of  the  Election  Sermon  into  the 
fire,  he  forthwith  began  another,  which  he  wrote  with 


THE    MINISTER    IN    A    HAZE.  . 

guch  an  impulsive  flow  of  thought  and  emotion,  that 
he  fancied  himself  inspired;  and  only  wondered  that 
Heaven  should  see  fit  to  transmit  the  grand  and  solemn 
music  of  its  oracles  through  so  foul  an  organ-pipe  as  he. 
However,  leaving  that  mystery  to  solve  itself,  or  go  un 
solved  forever,  he  drove  his  task  onward,  with  earnest 
haste  and  ecstasy.  Thus  the  night  fled  away,  as  if  il 
were  a  winged  steed,  and  he  careering  on  it;  morning 
came,  and  peeped,  blushing,  through  the  curtains ;  and 
at  last  sunrise  threw  a  golden  beam  into  the  study  and 
laid  it  right  across  the  minister's  bedazzled  eyes.  There 
hs  was,  with  the  pen  still  between  his  fingers,  and  t\  rawt 
tract  of  written  space  behind  him ! 


264  THE    SCARLET    LETTER 


XXI. 

THE  NEW  ENGLAND  HOLIDAY. 

BETDIES  in  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the  new 
Governor  was  to  receive  his  office  at  the  hands  of  the 
people,  Hester  Prynne  and  little  Pearl  came  into  the 
market-place.  It  was  already  thronged  with  the  crafts 
men  and  other  plebeian  inhabitants  of  the  town,  in  con 
siderable  numbers  ;  among  whom,  likewise,  were  many 
rough  figures,  whose  attire  of  deer-skins  marked  them 
as  belonging  to  some  of  the  forest  settlements,  which 
surrounded  the  little  metropolis  of  the  colony. 

On  this  public  holiday,  as  on  all  other  occasions,  for 
seven  years  past,  Hester  was  clad  in  a  garment  of 
coarse  gray  cloth.  Not  more  by  its  hue  than  by  somr 
indescribable  peculiarity  in  its  fashion,  it  had  the  effect 
of  making  her  fade  personally  out  of  sight  and  outline  ; 
while,  again,  the  scarlet  letter  brought  her  back  from 
this  twilight  indistinctness,  and  revealed  her  under  the 
moral  aspect  of  its  own  illumination.  Her  face,  so  long 
familiar  to  the  townspeople,  showed  the  marble  quietude 
which  they  were  accustomed  to  behold  there.  It  was 
like  a  mask  ;  or,  rather,  like  the  frozen  calmness  of  a 
dead  woman's.  features;  owing  this  dreary  resemblance 
to  the  fact  that  Hester  \yas-aetually.~dead,  in  respect  to 
-^mirjalhy^and  had  departed  out  of  the 
which-she  still  seemed  to  mingle- 


It  might  be,  on  this  one  day,  that  there  was  an  ex 
pression   unseen    before,  nor,  indeed,  vivid    enough  to 


THE    NEW    ENGLAND    HOLIDAY.  i 

be  detected  now ;  unless  some  preternaturally  gifted 
observer  should  have  first  read  the  heart,  and  havp 
afterwards  soujht  a  corresponding  development  in  the 
countenance  and  mien.  Such  a  spiritual  seer  might 
have  conceived,  that,  after  sustaining  the  gaze  of  the 
multitude  through  seven  miserable  years  as  a  necessity, 
a  penance,  and  something  which  it  was  a  stern  religion 
to  endure,  she  now,  for  one  last  time  more,  encountered 
it  freely  anc^voluntarily,  in  order  to  convert  what  had  so 
long  been  agony  into  a  kind  of  triumph.  "  Look  youi 
last  on  the  scarlet  letter  and  its  wearer  !  "  —  the  people's 
victim  and  life-long  bond-slave,  as  they  fancied  her, 
might  say  to  them.  "  Yet  a  little  while,  and  she  will 
be  beyond  your  reach  !  A  few  hours  longer,  and  the 
deep,  mysterious  ocean  will  quench  and  hide  forever  the 
symbol  which  ye  have  caused  to  burn  upon  her  bosom  !  " 
Nor  were  it  an  inconsistency  too  improbable  to  be  as 
signed  to  human  nature,  should  we  suppose  a  feeling  of 
regret  in  Hester's  mind,  at  the  moment  when  she  was 
about  to  win  her  freedom  from  the  pain  which  had  been 
thus  deeply  incorporated  with  her  being.  Might  there 
not  be  an  irresistible  desire  to  quaff  a  last,  long,  breath 
less  draught  of  the  cup  of  wormwood  and  aloes,  with 
which  nearly  all  her  years  of  womanhood  had  been  per 
petually  flavored  ?  The  wine  of  life,  henceforth  to  be 
presented  to  her  lips,  must  be  indeed  rich,  delicious,  and 
exhilarating,  in  its  chased  and  golden  bea.ker;  or  else 
leave  an  inevitable  and  weary  languor,  after  the  lees  of 
bitterness  wherewith  she  had  beep  dmgged,  as  with  a 
cordial  of  intensest  potency. 

Pearl  was  decked  out  with  airy  gayety.     It  would 
Dave   beea    'impossible    to  guess    that  this    bright   and 


2b8  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

sunny  apparition  owed  its  existence  to  the  sh«ij>e  of 
gloomy  gray ;  or  that  a  fancy,  at  once  so  gorgeous  and 
so  delicate  as  rrust  have  been  requisite  to  contrive  the 
child's  apparel,  was  the  same  that  had  achieved  a  task 
perhaps  more  difficult,  in  imparting  so  distinct  a  peculiar 
ity  to  Hester's  simple  robe.  The  dress,  so  proper  was  it 
to  little  Pearl,  seemed  an  effluence,  or  inevitable  devel 
opment  and  outward  manifestation  of  her  character,  nc 
more  to  be  separated  from  her  than  the  many  hued  brij 
liancy  from  a  butterfly's  wing,  or  the  painted  glory  fron. 
the  leaf  of  a  bright  flower.  As  with  these,  so  with  the 
child  ;  her  garb  was  all  of  one  idea  with  her  nature.  On 
this  eventful  day,  moreover,  there  was  a  certain  singular 
inquietude  and  excitement  in  her  mood,  resembling 
nothing  so  much  as  the  shimmer  of  a  diamond,  that 
sparkles  and  flashes  with  the  varied  throbbings  of  the 
breast  on  which  it  is  displayed.  Children  have  always 
a  sympathy  in  the  agitations  of  those  connected  with 
them ;  always,  especially,  a  sense  of  any  trouble  or  im 
pending  revolution,  of  whatever  kind,  in  domestic  cir 
cumstances  ;  and  therefore  Pearl,  who  was  the  gem  on 
her  mother's  unquiet  bosom,  betrayed,  by  the  v«ry  dance 
of  her  spirits,  the  emotions  w1<:  ]i  none  could  detect  in 
the  marble  passiveness  of  lie^..  i  s  brow. 

This  effervescence  made  her  flit  with  a  birdlike  move 
ment,  rather  than  walk  by  her  mother's  side.  She  broke 
continually  into  shouts  of  a  wild,  inarticulate,  and  some 
times  piercing  music.  When  they  reached  the  market- 
p  ace,  s.ie  became  still  more  restless,  on  perceiving  the 
utir  and  bustle  that  enlivened  the  spot ;  for  it  was 
usually  more  like  the  broad  and  lonesome  green  befow 


THE    NEW   ENGLAND    HOLIDAY  261 

meeting-house,  than  the  centre  of  a  town's 
business. 

"  Why,  what  is  this,  mother  ?  "  cried  she.  "  Wheie- 
fore  have  all  the  people  left  their  work  to-day  ?  Is  it  a 
play-day  for  the  whole  world  ?  See,  there  is  the  black- 
smith  !  He  has  washed  his  sooty  face,  and  put  on  his 
Sabbath-day  clothes,  and  looks  as  if  he  would  gladly  be 
merry,  if  any  kind  body  would  only  teach  him  how! 
And  there  is  Master  Brackett,  the  old  jailer,  nodding 
and  smiling  at  me.  Why  does  he  do  so,  mother  ? " 

"  He  remembers  thee  a  little  babe,  my  child,"  an 
swered  Hester. 

"  He  should  not  nod  and  smile  at  me,  for  all  that,  — 
the  black,  grim,  ugly-eyed  old  man  !  "  said  Pearl.  "  He 
may  nod  at  thee,  if  he  will ;  for  thou  art  clad  in  gray, 
and  wearest  the  scarlet  letter.  But  see,  mother,  hew 
many  faces  of  strange  people,  and  Indians  among  them, 
and  sailors  !  What  have  they  all  come  to  do,  here  in 
the  market-place  ?  " 

"  They  wait  to  see  the  procession  pass,"  said  Hester. 
"  For  the  Governor  and  the  magistrates  are  to  go  by,  and 
the  ministers,  and  all  the  great  people  and  good  people, 
with  the  music  and  the  soldiers  marching  before  them." 

"And  will  the  minister  be  there  ? "  asked  Pearl.  "And 
will  he  hold  out  both  his  hands  to  me,  as  when  thou  ledst 
me  to  him  from  the  brook-side  ? " 

"He  will  be  there,  child,"  answered  her  mother. 
"  But  he  will  not  greet  thee  to-day ;  nor  must  thou 
greet  him." 

"  What  a  strange,  sad  man  is  he !  "  said  the  child,  aa 
.f  speaking  partly  to  herself.  "  In  the  dark  night-timr 
he  cills  us  to  him,  and  holds  thy  hand  and  mine,  as 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

when  we  ytood  with  him  on  the  scaffold  yond  vr  Ana 
in  the  deep  forest,  where  only  the  old  trees  can  heai,and 
the  strip  of  sky  see  it,  he  talks  with  thee,  sitting  on  a 
heap  of  moss !  And  he  kisses  my  forehead,  foo,  so  that 
the  little  brook  would  hardly  wash  it  off!  But  here,  in 
the  sunny  day,  and  among  all  the  people,  he  knows  u<? 
not ;  nor  must  we  know  him !  A  strange,  sad  man  is 
he,  with  his  hand  always  over  his  heart ' " 

"  Be  quiet,  Pearl !  Thou  understandest  not  these 
things,"  said  her  mother.  "  Think  not  now  of  the  min 
ister,  but  look  about  thee,  and  see  how  cheery  is  every 
body's  face  to-day.  The  children  have  come  from  their 
fechools,  arid  the  grown  people  from  their  workshops  and 
their  fields,  on  purpose  to  be  happy.  For,  to-day,  a  new 
man  is  beginning  to  rule  over  them ;  and  so  —  as  has 
been  the  custom  of  mankind  ever  since  a  nation  was  first 
gathered  —  they  make  merry  and  rejoice  ;  as  if  a  good 
and  golden  year  were  at  length  to  pass  over  the  poor  old 
world ! " 

It  was  as  Hester  said,  in  regard  to  the  unwonted  jol 
lity  that  brightened  the  faces  of  the  people.  Into  this 
festal  season  of  the  year  —  as  it  already  was,  and  con 
tinued  to  be  during  the  greater  part  of  two  centuries  — 
the  Puritans  compressed  whatever  mirth  and  public  joj 
they  deemed  allowable  to  human  infirmity ;  thereby  so 
far  dispelling  the  customary  cloud,  that,  for  the  space  of 
i  single  holiday,  they  appeared  scarcely  more  grave 
than  most  other  communities  at  a  period  of  general 
affliction. 

But  we  perhaps  exaggerate  the  gray  or  sable  tinge 
svliich  undoubtedly  characterized  the  mood  and  manners 
of  the  age.  The  persons  now  in  the  market-place  of 


THE    NEW    EXGLAND    HOLIDAY. 

Boston  ha:  not  been  born  to  an  inheritance  tif  Puritanic 
gloom.  Tnej  were  native  Englishmen,  whose  fathers 
had  lived  in  the  sunny  richness  of  the  Elizabethan  epoch ; 
a  time  when  the  life  of  England,  viewed  as  one  great 
mass,  would  appear  to  have  been  as  stately  magnificent, 
and  joyous,  as  the  world  has  ever  witnessed.  Had  they 
followed  their  hereditary  taste,  the  New  England  settlers 
would  have  illustrated  all  events  of  public  importance  by 
bonfires,  banquets,  pageantries,  and  processions.  Nor 
would  it  have  been  impracticable,  in  the  observance  of 
majestic  ceremonies,  to  combine  mirthful  recreation  with 
solemnity,  and  give,  as  it  were,  a  grotesque  and  brilliant 
embroidery  to  the  great  robe  of  state,  which  a  nation,  at 
such  festivals,  puts  on.  There  was  some  shadow  of  an 
attempt  of  this  kind  in  the  mode  of  celebrating  the  day 
on  which  the  political  year  of  the  colony  commenced. 
The  dim  reflection  of  a  remembered  splendor,  a  colorless 
and  manifold  diluted  repetition  of  what  they  had  beheld 
in  proud  old  London,  —  we  will  not  say  at  a  royal  coro 
nation,  but  at  a  Lord  Mayor's  show, —  might  be  traced 
in  the  customs  which  our  forefathers  instituted,  with 
reference  to  the  annual  installation  of  magistrates.  The 
fathers  and  founders  of  the  commonwealth  —  the  states 
man,  the  priest,  and  the  soldier  —  deemed  it  a  duty  then 
to  assume  the  outward  state  and  majesty,  which,  in 
accordance  with  antique  style,  was  looked  upon  as  the 
proper  garb  of  public  or  social  eminence.  All  came 
forth,  to  move  in  procession  before  the  people's  eye,  and 
thus  impart  a  needed  dignity  to  the  simple  framework  of 
a  government  so  newly  constructed. 

Then,    too,    the    people    were    countenanced,    if   not 
encouraged   in  relaxing  the  severe  and  close  application 


270  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

to  their  various  modes  of  rugged  industry,  whi^h,  at  all 
other  times,  seemed  of  the  same  piece  and  material  with 
their  religion.  Here,  it  is  true,  were  none  of  the  appli 
ances  which  popular  merriment  would  so  readily  hr»ve 
found  in  the  England  of  Elizabeth's  time,  or  that  of 
James  ;  —  no  rude  shows  of  a  theatrical  kind ;  no  min 
strel,  with  his  harp  and  legendary  ballad,  nor  gleeman, 
with  an  ape  dancing  to  his  music ;  no  juggler,  with  his 
tricks  of  mimic  witchcraft ;  no  Merry  Andrew,  to  stir  up 
the  multitude  with  jests,  perhaps  hundreds  of  years  old, 
but  still  effective,  by  their  appeals  to  the  very  broadest 
sources  of  mirthful  sympathy.  All  such  professors  of 
the  several  brandies  of  jocularity  would  have  been 
sternly  repressed,  not  only  by  the  rigid  discipline  of  law, 
but  by  the  general  sentiment  which  gives  law  its  vitality. 
Not  the  less,  however,  the  great,  honest  face  of  the  peo 
ple  smiled,  grimly,  perhaps,  but  widely  too.  Nor  were 
sports  wanting,  such  as  the  colonists  had  witnessed,  and 
shared  in,  long  ago,  at  the  country  fairs  and  on  the 
village-greens  of  England ;  and  which  it  was  thought 
well  to  keep  alive  on  this  new  soil,  for  the  sake  of  the 
courage  and  manliness  that  were  essential  in  them. 
Wrestling-matches,  in  the  different  fashions  of  Cornwall 
and  Devonshire,  were  seen  here  and  there  about  the 
market-place  ;  in  one  corner,  there  was  a  friendly  bout 
at  quarterstaff;  and  —  what  attracted  most  interest  of 
all  —  on  the  platform  of  the  pillory,  already  so  noted  in 
our  pages,  two  masters  of  defence  were  commencing  an 
exnibition  with  the  buckler  and  broadsword.  •  But,  much 
to  the  disappointment  of  the  crowd,  this  lattt/r  business 
was  broken  off  by  the  interposition  of  the  town  beadle, 
had  nc  idea  of  permitting  the  majesty  of  the  law  tc 


fHE    NBW    ENGLAND   HOLIDAY 

oe  violated  by  such  a&  abuse  of  one  of  its  consecrated 
places 

It  may  not  be  too  much  to  affirm,  on  the  whole,  (the 
people  being  then  in  the  first  stages  of  joyless  deport 
ment,  and  the  offspring  of  sires  who  had  known  ho\v 
to  be  merry,  in  their  day,)  that  they  would  compare 
favorably,  in  point  of  holiday  keeping,  with  their  de 
scendants,  even  at  so  long  an  interval  as  ourselves. 
Their  immediate  posterity,  the  generation  next  to  the 
early  emigrants,  wore  the  blackest  shade  of  Puritan 
ism,  and  so  darkened  the  national  visage  with  it,  that 
all  the  subsequent  years  have  not  sufficed  to  clear  it 
up.  We  have  yet  to  learn  again  the  forgotten  art  of 


The  picture  of  human  life  in  the  market-place,  though 
its  general  tint  was  the  sad  gray,  brown,  or  black  of  the 
English  emigrants,  was  yet  enlivened  by  some  diversity 
of  hue.  A  party  of  Indians  —  in  their  savage  finery  of 
curiously  embroidered  deer-skin  robes,  wampum-belts, 
red  and  yellow  ochre,  and  feathers,  and  armed  with  the 
bow  and  arrow  and  stone-headed  spear  —  stood  apart, 
with  countenances  of  inflexible  gravity,  beyond  what 
even  the  Puntan  aspect  could  attain.  Nor,  wild  as  were 
these  painted  barbarians,  were  they  the  wildest  feature 
of  the  scene.  This  distinction  could  more  justly  be 
claimed  by  some  mariners,  —  a  part  of  the  crew  of  the 
vessel  from  the  Spanish  Main,  —  who  had  come  ashore 
to  see  trie  humors  of  Election  Day.  They  were  rough- 
looking  desperadoes,  with  sun-blackened  faces,  and  an 
immensity  of  beard  ;  their  wide,  short  trousers  were  con 
fined  about  the  waist  by  belts,  often  clasped  with  a  rough 
plate  o*  go/  d,  and  sustaining  always  a  long  knife:  and, 


272  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

in  some  instances,  a  sword.  From  beneath  their  broad- 
brimmed  hats  of  palm-leaf,  gleamed  eyes  which,  even  ... 
good  nature  and  merriment,  had  a  kind  of  animal 
ferocity.  They  transgressed,  without  fear  or  scruple,  the 
rules  of  behavior  that  were  binding  on  all  otheni ; 
smoking  tobacco  under  the  beadle's  very  nose,  although 
each  whiff  would  have  cost  a  townsman  a  shilling ;  and 
quaffing,  at  their  pleasure,  draughts  of  wine  or  aqua-vitae 
from  pocket- flasks,  which  they  freely  tendered  to  the 
gaping  crowd  around  them.  It  remarkably  character- 
ized  the  mgojTmlete-morality  o£-lhiLage^_rigid  as  we  call 
it,  that  a  lken§e_jsiis_.allp\ved  the  seafaring  class,  not 

"rTreretjTlbr  their  freaks  on  shore,  but  for  far  more  desper 
ate  deeds  orTjheir.  proper -element.  The  sailor  of  that 

"clay  "would  go  near  to  be  arraigned  as  a  pirate  in  our 
own.  There  could  be  little  doubt,  for  instance,  that  this 
very  ship's  crew,  though  no  unfavorable  specimens  of  the 
nautical  brotherhood,  had  been  guilty,  as  we  should 
phrase  it,  of  depredations  on  the  Spanish  commerce, 
such  as  would  have  perilled  all  their  necks  in  a  modern 
;ourt  of  justice. 

But  the  sea,  in  those  old  times,  heaved,  swelled  and 
foamed,  very  much  at  its  own  will,  or  subject  only  to  the 
tempestuous  wind,  with  hardly  any  attempts  at  regula 
tion  by  human  law.  The  buccaneer  on  the  wave  might 
relinquish  his  calling,  and  become  at  once,  if  he  chose,  a 
man  of  probity  and  piety  on  land ;  nor,  even  in  the  full 
career  of  his  reckless  life,  was  he  regarded  as  a  person 
age  with  whom  it  was  disreputable  to  traffic,  or  casually 
associate.  Thus,  the  Puritan  elders,  in  their  black 
cloaks,  starched  bands,  and  steeple-crowned  hats,  smiled 
not  unbenigna  ntly  at  the  clamor  and  rude  deport 


THE    NEW    ENGLAND    HOLIDAY.  273 

iiient  of  these  jolly  seafaring  men  ;  and  it  excited  neither 
surprise  nor  animadversion,  when  so  reputable  a  citizen 
as  old  Roger  Chillingworth,  the  physician,  was  seen  to 
enter  the  market-place,  in  close  and  familiar  talk  with 
the  commander  of  the  questionable  vessel. 

The  latter  was  by  far  the  most  showy  and  gallant 
figure,  so  far  as  apparel  went,  anywhere  to  be  seen 
among  the  multitude.  He  wore  a  profusion  of  ribbons 
on  his  garment,  and  gold  lace  on  his  hat,  which  was 
also  encircled  by  a  gold  chain,  and  surmounted  with  a 
feather.  There  was  a  sword  at  his  side,  and  a  sword-cut 
on  his  forehead,  which,  by  the  arrangement  of  his  hair, 
he  seemed  anxious  rather  to  display  than  hide.  A 
landsman  could  hardly  have  worn  this  garb  and  shown 
this  face,  and  worn  and  shown  them  both  with  such  a 
galliard  air,  without  undergoing  stern  question  before 
a  magistrate,  and  probably  incurring  fine  or  impris 
onment,  or  perhaps  an  exhibition  in  the  stocks.  As 
regarded  the  shipmaster,  however,  all  was  looked  upon 
as  pertaining  to  the  character,  as  to  a  fish  his  glistening 
scales. 

After  parting  from  the  physician,  the  commander  of 
the  Bristol  ship  strolled  idly  through  the  market-place ; 
until,  happening  to  approach  the  spot  where  Hester 
Prynne  was  standing,  he  appeared  to  recognize,  and  d:J 
not  hesitate  to  address  her.  As  was  usually  the  case 
wherever  Hester  stood,  a  small  vacant  area  — a  sort  }f 
magic  circle  —  had  formed  itself  about  her,  into  which 
though  the  people  were  elbowing  one  another  at  a  little 
distance,  none  ventured,  or  felt  disposed  to  intrude,  ll 
was  a  forcible  type  of  the  moral  solitude  in  which  tht 
scarlet  letter  enveloped  its  fated  wearer ;  partly  by  h<?i 
IS 


274  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

own  reserve,  and  partly  by  the  instinctive,  though  no 
longer  so  unkindly,  withdrawal  of  her  fellow-creatures, 
Now,  if  never  before,  it  answered  a  good  purpose,  by 
enabling  Hester  and  the  seaman  to  speak  together  with 
out  risk  of  being  overheard ;  and  so  changed  was  Hes 
ter  Prynne's  repute  before  the  public,  that  the  matron 
in  town  most  eminent  for  rigid  morality  could  not  have 
held  such  intercourse  with  less  result  of  scandal  than 
herself. 

"  So,  mistress,"  said  the  mariner,  "  I  must  bid  the 
steward  make  ready  one  more  berth  that  you  bargained 
for !  No  fear  of  scurvy  or  ship-fever,  this  voyage ! 
What  with  the  ship's  surgeon  and  this  other  doctor,  our 
only  danger  will  be  from  drug  or  pill ;  more  by  token, 
as  there  is  a  lot  of  apothecary's  stuff  aboard,  which  I 
traded  for  with  a  Spanish  vessel." 

"  What  mean  you  ? "  inquired  Hester,  startled  more 
than  she  permitted  to  appear.  "  Have  you  another  pas 
senger  ? " 

"  Why,  know  you  not,"  cried  the  shipmaster,  "  that 
this  physician  here — Chillingworth,  he  calls  himself  — 
is  minded  to  try  my  cabin-fare  with  you  ?  Ay,  ay, 
you  must  have  known  it;  for  he  tells  me  he  is  of  youi 
party,  and  a  close  friend  to  the  gentleman  you  spoke 
of,  —  he  that  is  in  peril  from  these  sour  old  Puritan 
rulers!" 

"  They  know  each  other  well,  indeed,"  replied  Hester, 
with  a  mien  of  calmness,  though  in  the  utmost  conster 
nation.  "  They  have  long  dwelt  together." 

Nothing  further  passed  between  the  mariner  and  Hes 
ter  Prynne.  But,  at  that  instant,  she  beheld  old  Roger 
nhilHngworth  himself,  standing  m  the  remotest  corner 


T3F    NHW     ENGLAND    HOLIDAY. 

if  the  narket-place,  and  smiling  on  her  ;  a  smile  which 
—  across  the  wide  and  bustling  square,  and  through  all 
ihe  talk  and  laughter,  an  I  various  thoughts,  moods,  an<> 
interests  of  the  *rowd  •  -  conveved  secret  and  fearfwJ 
meaning 


THK    ST.iRLET    LETTBB 


XXII. 

THE  PROCESSION. 

BEFORE  Hester  Pryrme  could  call  together  her  thoughts, 
and  consider  what  was  practicable  to  be  done  in  this  ne\i 
ana  startling  aspect  of  affairs,  the  sound  of  military  music 
was  heard  approaching  along  a  contiguous  street.  1( 
denoted  the  advance  of  the  procession  of  magistrates  and 
citizens,  on  its  way  towards  the  meeting-house;  where, 
in  compliance  with  a  custom  thus  early  established,  and 
ever  since  Observed,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmesdale  was 
to  deliver  an  Election  Sermon. 

Soon  the  head  of  the  procession  showed  itself,  with  a 
slow  and  stately  march,  turning  a  corner,  and  making 
its  way  across  the  market-place.  First  came  the  music. 
It  comprised  a  variety  of  instruments,  perhaps  imperfeuity 
adapted  to  one  another,  and  played  with  no  great  skill ; 
but  yet  attaining  the  great  object  for  which  the  harmony 
of  drum  and  clarion  addresses  itself  to  the  multitude,  — 
that  of  imparting  a  higher  and  more  heroic  air  to  trie 
scene  of  life  that  passes  before  the  eye.  Little  Pearl  at 
first  clapped  her  hands,  but  then  lost,  for  an  instant,  the 
-estless  agitation  that  had  kept  her  in  a  continual  effer 
vescence  throughout  the  morniug;  she  gazed  silently. 
and  seemed  to  be  borne  upward,  like  a  floating  seu-bird. 
\m  the  long  heaves  and  swells  of  sound.  But  she  was 
Drought  back  to  her  former  mood  by  the  shimmer  ol  the 
sunshine  on  the  weapons  and  bright  armor  of  the  mill- 
company,  which  followed  after  the  music,  cuwj 


THE    PROCESSION.  271 

foil. ied  the  honorary  escort  of  the  procession.  This 
body  of  soldiery  —  which  still  sustains  a  corporate  exist 
ence,  and  marches  down  from  past  ages  with  an  ancient 
and  honorable  fame  —  was  composed  of  no  mercenary 
materials.  Its  ranks  were  filled  with  gentlemen,  who 
i'elt  the  stirrings  of  martial  impulse,  and  sought  to  estab 
lish  a  kind  of  College  of  Arms,  where,  as  in  ar.  associa 
tion  of  Knights  Templars,  they  might  learn  the  science, 
and,  so  far  as  peaceful  exercise  would  teach  them,  the 
practices  of  war.  The  high  estimation  then  placed  upon 
the  military  character  might  be  seen  in  the  lofty  port  of 
each  individual  member  of  the  company.  Some  of  them, 
indeed,  by  their  services  in  the  Low  Countries  and  on 
other  fields  of  European  warfare,  had  fairly  won  their 
title  to  assume  the  name  and  pomp  of  soldiership.  The 
entire  array,  moreover,  clad  in  burnished  steel,  and  with 
plumage  nodding  over  their  bright  morions,  had  a  bril 
liancy  of  effect  which  no  modern  display  can  aspire  to 
equal. 

And  yet  the  men  of  civil  eminence,  who  came  imme 
diately  behind  the  military  escort,  were  better  worth  a 
thoughtful  observer's  eye.  Even  in  outward  demeanor, 
they  showed  a  stamp  of  majesty  that  made  the  warriors 
haughty  stride  look  vulgar,  if  not  absurd.  It  was  an 
age  when  what  we  call  talent  had  far  less  consideration 
Jhan  nowTBut  the  massive  materials  which  produce  sta 
bility  and  dignity  of  character  a  great  deal  more.  The 
people  possessed,  by  hereditary  light,  the  quality  of  rev 
erence  ;  which,  in  their  descendants,  if  it  survive  at  all, 
exists  in  smaller  proportion,  and  with  a  vastly  diminished 
force*  in  the  selection  and  estimate  of  public  men.  The 
change  may  be  for  good  or  ill,  and  is  partly,  perhaps,  foi 


278  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

both.  In  that  old  day,  the  English  settler  on  iheso 
shores  —  having  left  king,  nobles,  and  all  degrees  of 
awful  rank  behind,  while  still  the  faculty  and  necessity 
of  reverence  were  strong  in  him  —  bestowed  it  on  the 
white  hair  and  venerable  brow  of  age ;  on  long-tried 
integrity  ;  on  solid  wisdom  and  sad-colored  experience  ; 
on  endowments  of  that  grave  and  weighty  order  which 
gives  the  idea  of  permanence,  and  comes  under  the  gen 
eral  definition  of  respectability.  These  primitive  states 
men,  therefore,  —  Bradstreet,  Endicott,  Dudley,  Bellirig- 
ham,  and  their  compeers,  —  who  were  elevated  to  powei 
by  the  early  choice  of  the  people,  seem  to  have  been  not 
often  brilliant,  but  distinguished  by  a  ponderous  sobriety, 
rather  than  activity  of  intellect.  They  had  fortitude  and 
self-reliance,  and,  in  time  of  difficulty  or  peril,  stood  up 
for  the  welfare  of  the  state  like  a  line  of  cliffs  .against  a 
tempestuous  tide.  The  traits  of  character  here  indicated 
were  well  represented  in  the  square  cast  of  countenance 
and  large  physical  development  of  the  new  colonial  mag 
istrates.  So  far  as  a  demeanor  of  natural  authority  was 
concerned,  the  mother  country  need  not  have  been 
tshamed  to  see  these  foremost  men  of  an  actual  democ 
racy  adopted  into  the  House  of  Peers,  or  made  the  Privy 
Council  of  the  sovereign. 

Next  in  order  to  the  magistrates  came  the  young  and 
eminently  distinguished  divine,  from  whose  lips  the  reli 
gious  discourse  of  the  anniversary  was  expected.  His 
was  the  profession,  at  that  era,  in  which  intellectual 
ability  displayed  itself  far  more  than  in  political  life  ;  foi 
—  leaving  a  higher  motive  out  of  the  question  —  it 
offered  inducements  powerful  enough,  in  the  almost  wor 
shipping  respect  of  the  community,  to  win  the  most  aspir 


THE    PROoESSIOIS.  279 

oig  ambition  into  its  service.  Even  political  power —  as 
in  the  case  of  Increase  Mather — was  within  the  grasp 
of  a  successful  priest. 

It  was  the  observation  of  those  who  beheld  him  now, 
that  never,  since  Mr.  Dimmesdale  first  set  his  foot  on  the 
New  England  shore,  had  he  exhibited  such  energy  as 
was  seen  in  the  gait  and  air  with  which  he  kept  his  pace 
in  the  procession.  There  was  no  feebleness  of  step,  as 
at  other  times ;  his  frame  was  not  bent ;  nor  did  his 
hand  rest  ominously  upon  his  heart.  Yet,  if  the  clergy 
man  were  rightly  viewed,  his  strength  seemed  not  of  the 
body.  It  might  be  spiritual,  and  imparted  to  him  by 
angelic  ministrations.  It  might  be  the  exhilaration  of 
that  potent  cordial,  which  is  distilled  only  in  the  furnace- 
glow  of  earnest  and  long-continued  thought.  Or,  per- 
jhance,  his  sensitive  temperament  was  invigorated  by 
the  loud  and  piercing  music,  that  swelled  heavenward, 
and  uplifted  him  on  its  ascending  wave.  Nevertheless, 
so  abstracted  was  his  look,  it  might  be  questioned  whether 
ftlr.  Dimmesdale  even  heard  the  music.  There  was  his 
oody,  moving  onward,  and  with  an  unaccustomed  force. 
But  where  was  his  mind  ?  Far  and  deep  in  its  own 
region,  busying  itself,  with  preternatural  activity,  to 
marshal  a  procession  of  stately  thoughts  that  were  soon 
to  issue  thence ;  and  so  he  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing, 
knew  nothing,  of  what  was  around  him ;  but  the  spiritual 
element  took  up  the  feeble  frame,  and  carried  it  along, 
unconscious  of  the  burden,  and  converting  it  to  spirit  like 
itbelf.  Men  of  uncommon  intellect,  who  have  grown 
morbid,  possess  th>s  occasional  power  of  mighty  effort, 
into  which  they  throw  the  life  of  many  days,  and  then 
are  lifeless  for  as  many  more. 


*SoU  THE    SCARLET     LETTER. 

Hester  Prynne,  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  clergyman, 
felt  a  dreary  influence  come  over  her,  but  wherefore  01 
whence  she  knew  not ;  unless  that  he  seemed  so  remote 
from  b^r  o\vn  sphere,  and  utterly  beyond  her  reach. 
One  glance  of  recognition,  she  had  imagined,  must  needs 
pass  between  them.  She  thought  of  the  dim  forest,  with 
its  little  dell  of  solitude,  and  love,  and  anguish,  and  the 
mossy  tree-trunk,  where,  sitting  hand  in  hand,  they  had 
mingled  their  sad  and  passionate  talk  with  the  melan 
choly  murmur  of  the  brook.  How  deeply  had  they 
known  each  other  then  !  And  was  this  the  man  ?  She 
hardly  knew  him  now !  He,  moving  proudly  past,  en 
veloped,  as  it  were,  in  the  rich  music,  with  the  proces 
sion  of  majestic  and  venerable  fathers  ;  he,  so  unattaina 
ble  in  his  worldly  position,  and  still  more  so  in  that  far 
vista  of  his  unsympathizing  thoughts,  through  which  she 
new  beheld  him  !  Her  spirit  sank  with  the  idea  that  all 
must  have  been  a,  delusion,  and  that,  vividly  as  she  had 
dreamed  it,  there  could  be  no  real  bond  betwixt  the 
clergyman  and  herself.  And  thus  much  of  Woman  was 
iriere  in  Hester,  that  she  could  scarcely  forgive  him,  — 
least  of  all  now,  when  the  heavy  footstep  of  their  ap 
proaching  Fate  might  be  heard,  nearer,  nearer,  nearer ! 
—  for  being  able  so  .complelely__tp  withdraw  himself  fiom 
their  mutual  world;  while  she  groped  darkly,  an«] 
stretcEecI  forth  her  cold  hands,  and  found  him  not. 


Pearl  either  saw  and  responded  to  her  mother's  feel  • 
ings,  or  herself  felt  the  rejnolejaess.andL  intangibility  thai 
had  fallen  around  the  minister.  While  the  procession 
passed,  the  child  was  uneasy,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
like  a  bird  on  the  point  of  taking  flight.  Wiien  th* 
whole  had  gone  by,  she  looked  up  into  Hester's  face 


THE    PROCESSION. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  was  that  the  same  minister  that 
Kissed  me  by  the  brook  ?  " 

"  Hold  thy  peace,  dear  little  Pearl !  "  whispered  her 
mother.  -We  must  not  always  talk  in  the  market 
place  of  wf»at  happens  to  us  in  the  forest." 

"  I  could  not  be  sure  that  it  was  he ;  so  strange  he 
looked,"  continued  the  child.  "  Else  I  would  have  run 
to  him,  and  bid  him  kiss  me  now,  before  all  the  people  ; 
even  as  he  did  yonder  among  the  dark  old  trees.  What 
would  the  minister  have  said,  mother  ?  Would  he  have 
clapjjed  his  hand  over  his  heart,  and  scowled  on  me,  and 
bid  me  begone  ?  " 

What  should  he  say,  Pearl,"  answered  Hester, "  save 
that  it  was  no  time  to  kiss,  and  that  kisses  are  not  to  be 
given  in  the  market-place  ?  Well  for  thee,  foolish  child, 
that  thou  didst  not  speak  to  him !  " 

Another  shade  of  the  same  sentiment,  in  reference 
vo  Mr.  Dimmesdale,  was  expressed  by  a  person  whose 
eccentricities  —  or  insanity,  as  we  should  term  it  —  led 
her  to  do  what  few  of  the  townspeople  would  have  ven 
tured  on  ;  to  begin  a  conversation  with  the  wearer  of 
the  scarlet  letter,  in  public.  It  was  Mistress  Hibbins, 
who,  arrayed  in  great  magnificence,  with  a  triple  ruff,  a 
broidered  stomacher,  a  gown  of  rich  velvet,  and  a  gold- 
headed  cane,  had  come  forth  to  see  the  procession.  As 
this  ancient  lady  had  the  renown  (which  subsequently 
cost  her  no  h  ss  a  price  than  her  life)  of  being  a  principal 
actor  in  all  the  works  of  necromancy  that  wrere  continu 
ally  going  forward,  the  crowd  gave  way  before  her,  and 
seemed  to  fear  the  touch  of  her  garment,  as  if  it  carried 
the  plague  among  its  gorgeous  folds.  Seen  m  conjunc 
tion  with  Hester  Prynne, — kindly  as  so  many  non  felt 


282  THE    SCARLET    LETTISH. 

towards  the  latter, — the  dread  inspired  b)  I-fistress 
Hibbins  was  doubled,  and  caused  a  general  movement 
from  that  part  of  the  market-place  in  which  the  two 
women  stood. 

"  Now,  what  mortal  imagination  could  conceive  it !  " 
whispered  the  old  lady,  confidentially,  to  Hester.  "  Yon 
der  divine  man  !  That  saint  on  earth,  as  the  people 
uphold  him  to  be,  and  as  —  I  must  needs  say  —  he 
really  looks  !  Who,  now,  that  saw  him  pass  in  the  pro 
cession,  would  think  how  little  while  it  is  since  he  went 
forth  out  of  his  study,  —  chewing  a  Hebrew  text  of 
Scripture  in  his  mouth,  I  warrant,  —  to  take  an  airing 
in  the  forest !  Aha  !  we  know  what  that  means,  Hester 
Prynne  !  Bui  truly,  forsooth,  I  find  it  hard  to  believe 
him  the  same  man.  Many  a  church-member  saw  i, 
walking  behind  the  music,  that  has  danced  in  the  same 
measure  with  me,  when  Somebody  was  fiddler,  and,  it 
might  be,  an  Indian  powwow  or  a  Lapland  wizard  chang 
ing  hands  with  us !  That  is  but  a  trifle,  when  a  woman 
knows  the  world.  But  this  minister!  Couldst  thou 
surely  tell,  Hester,  whether  he  was  the  same  man  that 
encountered  thee  on  the  forest-path  ? " 

"  Madam,  I  know  not  of  what  you  speak,"  answered 
Hester  Prynne,  feeling  Mistress  Hibbins  to  be  of  infirm 
mind ;  yet  strangely  startled  and  awe-stricken  by  the 
confidence  with  which  she  affirmed  a  personal  connection 
between  so  many  persons  (herself  among  them)  and  the 
ISvil  One.  "It  is  not  for  rne  to  talk  lightly  of  a  learned 
and  pious  minister  of  the  Word,  like  the  Reverend  Mr 
Dimmesdale  !  " 

"  Vie,  woman,  fie !  "  cried  the  old  lady,  shaking  hei 
*nger  »t  Hester.  "  Dost  thou  think  I  have  been  to  Cbf 


THE    PROCESSION.  283 

lorest  so  many  times,  and  have  yet  no  skill  to  judge 
who  else  has  been  there  ?  Yea ;  though  no  leaf  of  the 
w\\d  garlands,  which  they  wore  while  they  danced,  be 
left  in  their  hair !  I  know  thee,  Hester ;  for  I  behold 
the  token.  \V  e  may  all  see  it  in  the  sunshine  ;  and  it 
g.ows  like  a  red  flame  in  the  dark.  Thou  wearest  it 
openly ;  so  there  need  be  no  question  about  that.  Buf 
this  minister  !  Let  me  tell  thee,  in  thine  ear  !  Wher 
the  Black  Man  sees  one  of  his  own  servants,  signed  and 
sealed,  so  shy  of  owning  to  the  bond  as  is  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Dimmesdale,  he  hath  a  way  of  ordering  matters  so 
that  the  mark  shall  be  disclosed  in  open  daylight  to  the 
eyes  of  all  the  world !  What  is  it  that  the  minister 
seeks  to  hide,  with  his  hand  always  over  his  heart  ?  Ha, 
Hester  Prynne ! " 

"  What  is  it,  good  Mistress  Hibbins  ?  n  eagerly  asked 
little  Pearl.  "  Hast  thou  seen  it  ?  " 

"  No  matter,  darling !  "  responded  Mistress  Hibbins, 
making  Pearl  a  profound  reverence.  "  Thou  thyself 
wilt  see  it,  one  time  or  another.  They  say,  child,  thou 
art  of  the  lineage  of  the  Prince  of  the  Air !  Wilt  thou 
ride  with  me,  some  fine  night,  to  see  thy  father  ?  Then 
thou  shalt  know  wherefore  the  minister  keeps  his  hand 
over  his  heart !  " 

Laughing  so  shrilly  that  all  trie  market-place  could 
hear  her,  the  weird  old  gentlewoman  took  her  departure. 

By  this  time  the  preliminary  prayer  had  been  offered 
in  the  moeting-house,  and  the  accents  of  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Dimmesdale  were  heard  commencing  his  discourse. 
An  irresistible  feeling  kept  Hester  near  the  spot.  As  the 
sacred  edifice  \vas  too  much  thronged  to  admit  anothel 
auiitor,  she  took  up  her  position  clos?  beside  the  scaffold 


2S4  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

of  tht  pillory.  It  was  in  sufficient  proximity  to 
the  whole  sermon  to  her  ears,  in  the  shape  of  an  indis 
tinct,  but  varied,  murmur  and  flow  of  the  minister's  very 
peculiar  voice. 

This  vocal  organ  was  in  itself  a  rich  endowment  ; 
insomuch  that  a  listener,  comprehending  nothing  of  the 
language  in  which  the  preacher  spoke,  might  still  have 
been  swayed  to  and  fro  by  the  mere  tone  and  cadence. 
Like  all  other  music,  it  breathed  passion  and  pathos,  and 
emotions  high  or  tender,  in  a  tongue  native  to  the  human 
heart,  wherever  educated.  Muffled  as  the  sound  was 
by  its  passage  through  the  church-walls,  Hester  Prynne 
listened  with  such  intentness,  and  sympathized  so  inti 
mately,  that  the  sermon  had  throughout  a  meaning  for  her, 
entirely  apart  from  its  indistinguishable  words.  These. 
jerhaps,  if  more  distinctly  heard,  might  have  been  only 
a  grosser  medium,  and  have  clogged  the  spiritual  sense 
Now  she  caught  the  low  undertone,  as  of  the  wind  sink 
ing  down  to  repose  itself;  then  ascended  with  it,  as  i/ 
rose  through  progressive  gradations  of  sweetness  and 
power,  until  its  volume  seemed  to  envelop  her  with  an 
atmosphere  of  awe  and  solemn  grandeur.  And  yet, 
majestic  as  the  voice  sometimes  became,  there  was  for 
ever  in  it  an  essential  character  of  plaintiveness.  Aloud 
orjow  expression  of  anguish,  —  tlie  whisper,  or  the 

humanity, 


/thatjmiched  a  sensibility  in  every  b»eom  !  At  times 
this  deep  "strain"  of  pathos  was  all  that  could  be  heard, 
nnd  scarcely  heard,  sighing  amid  a  desolate  silence.  But 
even  \»  hen  the  minister's  voice  grew  high  and  command 
ing,  —  when  it  gushed  irrepressibly  upward,  —  when  it 
asnmned  Us  utmost  breadth  and  power,  so  overfilling1  the 


THE    PROCESSION. 


285 


church  as>  to  burst  its  way  through  the  solid  walls,  ant 
diffuse  itself  in  the  open  air,  — still,  if  the  auditor  listened 
ntently,  and  for  the  purpose,  he  could  detect  the  sarm 
cry  of  pain.  What  was  it  ?  The  complaint  of  a  human 
heart;  sorrow-laden,  perchance  guilty,  telling  its  secret, 
whether  of  guilt  or  sorrow,  to  the  great  heart  of  man 
kind ;  beseeching  its  sympathy  or  forgiveness,  —  at 
every  moment,  —  in  each  accent,  —  and  never  in  vain  ! 
It  was  this  profound  and  continual  undertone  that  gave 
the  clergyman  his  most  appropriate  power. 

During  all  this  timp,  Hpptpr  stonrl,  stntnp.1il.-p,  nt  the 
foot  of  the  scaffold, —  If  the  minister's  voice  had  not 


kept  her  there,  there  would  nevertheless  have  been  an 
inevitable  magnetism  in  that  spot,  whence  she  dated  the 
first  hour  of  her  life  of  ignominy.  Tilery  was  a  sense 
jvithin  her,  —  too  ill-defined  to  be  made  a  thought,  but 
jYsighing  h«avily  on  her  mind,  —  that  her  whole  orb  of 
life,  hojh  before  and  after,  was  connected  with  this  spot, 

with  the  one  pointj] 

Little  Pearl,  meanwhile,  had  quitted  her  mother's 
side,  and  was  playing  at  her  own  \vill  about  the  market 
place.  She  made  the  sombre  crowd  cheerful  by  her 
erratic  and  glistening  ray ;  even  as  a  bird  of  bright  plum 
age  illuminates  a  whole  tree  of  dusky  foliage,  by  dart^ 
ing  to  and  fro,  half  seen  and  half  concealed  amid  the 
twilight  of  the  clustering  leaves.  She  had  an  undula 
ting,  but,  oftentimes,  a  sharp  and  irregular  movement.  It 
indicated  the  restless  vivacity  of  her  spirit,  which  to-dav 
"vas  doubiy  indefatigable  in  its  tiptoe  dance,  because  it 
was  played  upon  and  vibrated  with  her  mother's  disqui 
etude.  Whenever  Pearl  saw  anything  to  excite  her  ever 
active  and  wandering  curiosity,  she  flew  thitherward 


R36  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

and-,  as  \ve  might  say,  seized  upon  that  man  or  thing  aa 
her  own  property,  so  far  as  she  desired  it ;  but  without 
yielding  the  minutest  degree  of  control  over  her  motions 
iik  requital.  The  Puritans  looked  on,  and,  if  they  smiled. 
were  none  the  less  inclined  to  pronounce  the  child  a 
demon  offspring,  from  the  indescribable  charm  of  beauty 
and  eccentricity  that  shone  through  her  little  figure,  and 
sparkled  v/ith  its  activity.  She  ran  and  looked  the  wild 
Indian  in  the  face;  and  he  grew  conscious  of  a  nature 
wilder  than  his  own.  Thence,  with  native  audacity, 
but  still  with  a  reserve  as  characteristic,  she  flew  into 
the  midst  of  a  group  of  mariners,  the  swarthy-cheeked 
wild  men  of  the  ocean,  as  the  Indians  were  of  the  land ; 
and  they  gazed  wonderingly  and  admiringly  at  Pearl,  as 
if  a  flake  of  the  sea-foam  had  taken  the  shape  of  a  little 
maid,  and  were  gifted  with  a  soul  of  the  sea-fire,  that 
flashes  beneath  the  prow  in  the  night-time. 

One  of  these  seafaring  men  —  the  shipmaster,  indeed, 
who  had  spoken  to  Hester  Prynne  —  was  so  smitten  with 
Pearl's  aspect,  that  he  attempted  to  lay  hands  upon  her 
with  purpose  to  snatch  a  kiss.  Finding  it  as  impossible 
to  touch  her  as  to  catch  a  humming-bird  in  the  air,  he 
took  from  his  hat  the  gold  chain  that  was  twisted  about 
it,  and  threw  it  to  the  child.  Pearl  immediately  twined 
.1  around  her  neck  and  waist,  with  such  happy  skill,  that, 
once  seen  there,  it  became  a  part  of  her,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  imagine  her  without  it. 

"  Thy  mother  is  yonder  woman  with  the  scarlet  let 
ter,"  said  the  seaman.  "  Wilt  thru  carry  her  a  message 
from  me  ?  " 

"  If  the  message  pleases  me,  I  will,"  answered  Pearl. 

"Then   tell  her,''  rejoined   he,  "that  I  spake   agrip 


THE    PROCESSION.  28" 

with  the  black-a-visaged,  hump-shouldered  old  doctor, 
and  lie  engages  to  bring  his  friend,  the  gentleman  she 
wots  of,  aboard  with  him.  So  let  thy  mother  take  no 
thought,  save  for  herself  and  thee.  Wilt  thou  tell  her 
this,  thou  witch-baby?" 

"Mistress  Hibbins  says  my  father  is  the  Prince  of 
the  Air !  "  cried  Pearl,  with  a  naughty  smile.  "  If  thou 
r.allest  me  that  ill  name,  I  shall  tell  him  of  thee ;  and  he 
will  chase  thy  ship  with  a  tempest !  " 

Pursuing  a  zigzag  course  across  the  market-place,  the 
child  returned  to  her  mother,  and  communicated  what 
(he  mariner  had  said.  Hester's  strong,  calm,  steadfastly 
enduring  spirit  almost  sank,  at  last,  on  beholding  this 
dark  and  grim  countenance  of  an  inevitable  doom,  whk'h 

—  at  the  moment  when  a  passage   seemed   to  open  foi 
the  minister  and  herself  out  of  their  labyrinth  of  misery 

—  showed  itself,  with  an  unrelenting  smile,  right  in  the 
midst  of  their  path. 

With  her  mind  harassed  by  the  terrible  perplexity 
in  which  the  shipmaster's  intelligence  involved  her,  she 
was  also  subjected  to  another  trial.  There  were  many 
people  present,  from  the  country  round  about,  who  had 
often  heard  of  the  scarlet  letter,  and  to  whom  it  had 
been  made  terrific  by  a  hundred  false  or  exaggerated 
ramors,  but  who  had  never  beheld  it  with  their  own 
bodily  eyes.  These,  after  exhausting  other  modes  of 
amusement,  now  thronged  about  Hester  Prynne  with 
rude  and  boorish  intrusiveness.  Unscrupulous  aa  it  was, 
ho\vever,  it  could  not  bring  them  nearer  than  9  circuit 
of  several  yards.  At  that  distance  the)  accordingly 
stood,  fixed  there  by  the  centrifugal  force  of  thf  repuu;- 
which  the  mystic  symbol  iaspired.  Th*  who? a 


288  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

gang  of  sailors,  likewise,  observing  the  press  of  spectators, 
and  learning  the  purport  of  the  scarlet  letter,  came  and 
thrust  their  sunburnt  and  desperado-looking  faces  into 
the  ring.  Even  the  Indians  were  affected  by  a  sort  of 
cold  shadow  of  the  white  man's  curiosity,  and,  gliding 
through  the  crowd,  fastened  their  snake-like  black  eyes 
on  Hester's  bosom  ;  conceiving,  perhaps,  that  the  wearer 
of  this  brilliantly  embroidered  badge  must  needs  be  a 
personage  of  high  dignity  among  her  people.  Lastly 
the  inhabitants  of  the  town  (their  own  interest  in  this 
worn-out  subject  languidly  reviving  itself,  by  sympathy 
fvith  what  they  saw  others  feel)  lounged  idly  to  the  same 
quarter,  and  tormented  Hester  Prynne,  perhaps  more 
chan  all  the  rest,  with  their  cool,  well-acquainted  gaze  at 
her  familiar  shame.  Hester  saw  and  recognized  the 
self-same  faces  of  that  group  of  matrons,  who  had  awaited 
her  forthcoming  from  the  prison-door,  seven  years  ago ; 
all  save  one,  the  youngest  and  only  compassionate 
among  them,  whose  burial-robe  she  had  since  made. 
At  the  final  hoqr,  when  she  was  so  soon  to  fling  aside 
the  burning* letter,  it  had  strangely  become  the  centre  of 
more  remark  and  excitement,  and  was  thus  made  to  sear 
her  breast  more  painfully,  than  at  any  time  since  the 
first  day  she  put  tt  on. 

While  Hester  stood  in  that  magic  circle  of  ignominy, 
where  the  cunning  cruelty  of  her  sentence  seemed  to 
have  fixed  her  forever,  the  admirable  preacher  was 
looking  down  from  the  sacred  pulpit  upon  an  audience 
whose  very  inmost  spirits  had  yielded  to  his  control. 
The  sainted  minister  in  the  church !  The  woman  of 
the  scarlet  letter  in  the  market-place !  What  imagi 
nation  would  have  been  irreverent  enough  to  surmise 
that  the  same  scorching  stignia  was  on  them  both! 


TBB    &£V>2LAT10N    OF    THE    SCARLET    LKTTER  9 


XXIII. 

FHE  REVELATION  OF  THE  SCARLET  LETTER 

THE  eloquent  voice,  on  which  the  souls  of  the  listen* 
ing  audience  had  been  borne  aloft  as  on  the  swelling 
waves  of  the  sea,  at  length  came  to  a  pause.  There 
was  a  momentary  silence,  profound  as  what  should  fol 
low  the  utterance  of  oracles.  Then  ensued  a  murmur 
and  half-hushed  tumult;  as  if  the  auditors,  released 
from  the  high  spell  that  had  transported  them  into  the 
region  of  another's  mind,  were  returning  into  themselves, 
with  all  their  awe  and  wonder  still  heavy  on  them.  In 
a  moment  more,  the  crowd  began  to  gush  forth  from  the 
doors  of  the  church.  Now  that  there  was  an  end,  they 
needed  other  breath,  more  fit  to  support  the  gross  and 
earthly  life  into  which  they  relapsed,  than  that  atmos 
phere  which  the  preacher  had  converted  into  words  of 
flame,  and  had  burdened  with  the  rich  fragrance  of  his 
thought. 

In  the  open  air  their  rapture  broke  into  speech.  The 
street  and  the  market-place  absolutely  babbled,  from  side 
to  side,  with  applauses  of  the  minister.  His  hearers 
could  not  rest  until  they  had  told  one  another  of  what 
each  knew  better  than  he  could  tell  or  hear.  According 
to  tlieir  united  testimony,  never  had  man  spoken  in  S3 
wise,  so  high,  and  so  holy  a  spirit,  as  he  that  spake  this 
day ;  nor  had  inspiration  ever  breathed  through  mortal 
Ups  more  evidently  than  it  did  through  his.  Its  influ 
ence  c'uld  be  seen,  as  it  were,  descending  upon  him, 
19 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

and  pos«essing  him,  and  continually  lifting  him  out  crt 
the  written  discourse  that  loy  before  him,  and  filling  bins 
with  ideas  that  must  have  been  as  marvellous  to  himself 
as  to  his  audience.  His  subject,  it  appeared,  had  been 
the  relation  beVveen  the  Deity  and  the  communities  of 
mankind,  with  a  special  reference  to  the  New  Engbtnd 
which  they  were  here  planting  in  the  wilderness.  And, 
as  he  drew  towards  the  close,  a  spirit  as  of  prophecy  had 
come  upon  him,  constraining  him  to  its  purpose  as 
mightily  as  the  old  prophets  of  Israel  were  constrained  , 
only  with  this  difference,  that,  whereas  the  Jewish  seers 
had  denounced  judgments  and  ruin  on  their  country,  it 
was  his  mission  to  foretell  a  high  and  glorious  destiny 
for  the  newly  gathered  people  of  the  Lord.  But,  through 
out  it  all,  and  through  the  whole  discourse,  there  had 
been  a  certain  deep,  sad  undertone  of  pathos,  which 
could  not  be  interpreted  otherwise  than  as  the  natural 
regret  oi  one  soon  to  pass  away.  Yes ;  their  minister 
whom  they  so  loved  —  and  who  so  loved  them  all,  that 
he  could  not  depart  heavenward  without  a  sigh  —  had  the 
foreboding  of  untimely  death  upon  him,  and  would  soon 
leave  them  in  then  tears!  This  idea  of  his  transitory 
stay  on  earth  gave  the  last  emphasis  to  the  effect  which 
the  preacher  had  produced ;  it  was  as  if  an  angel,  in  his 
pas-age  to  the  skies,  had  shaken  his  bright  wings  over 
the  people  for  an  instant,  —  at  once  a  shadow  and  i 
splendor,  —  and  had  shed  down  a  shower  of  golden 
truths  upon  them. 

Thus,  there  had  come  to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimmes- 
dale  —  as  to  most  men,  in  their  various  spheres,  though 
seldom  recognized  until  they  see  it  far  behind  them  — 
an  epoch  of  life  more  brilliant  and  full  of  triumph  tha» 


THE    REVELATION    OF    T1IE    SCARLET    LETT  LR.          2$  \ 

any  previous  one,  or  than  any  which  could  hereafter  be. 
He  stood,  at  this  moment,  on  the  very  proudest  eminencf 
of  superiority,  to  which  the  gifts  of  intellect,  rich  lore 
prevailing  eloquence,  and  a  reputation  of  whitest  san.-tity, 
could  exalt  a  clergyman  in  New  England's  earliest  Jays, 
when  the  professional  character  was  of  itself  a  lofty 
pedestal.  Such  was  the  position  which  the  ministei 
occupied,  as  he  bowed  his  head  forward  on  the  cushions 
of  the  pulpit,  at  the  close  of  his  Election  Sermon.  Mean 
while  Hester  Prynne  was  standing  beside  the  scaffold  of 
the  pillory,  with  the  scarlet  letter  still  burning  on  her 
breast ! 

Now  was  heard  again  the  clangor  of  the  music,  and  the 
measured  tramp  of  the  military  escort,  issuing  from  the 
church-door.  The  procession  was  to  be  marshalled  thence 
to  the  town-hall,  where  a  solemn  banquet  would  complete 
the  ceremonies  of  the  day. 

Once  more,  therefore,  the  train  of  venerable/  and  ma- 
'estic  fathers  was  seen  moving  through  a  broad  pathway 
of  the  people,  who  drew  back  reverently,  on  either  side, 
as  the  Governor  and  magistrates,  the  old  and  wise  men, 
the  holy  ministers,  and  all  that  were  eminent  and  re 
nowned,  advanced  into  the  midst  of  them.  When  they 
were  fairly  in  the  market-place,  their  presence  was  greeted 
by  a  shout.  This  —  though  doubtless  it  might  acquire 
additional  force  and  volume  from  the  childlike  loyalty 
which  the  age  awarded  to  its  rulers  —  was  felt  to  be  an 
irrepressible  outburst  of  enthusiasm  kindled  in  the  audi 
tors  by  that  high  strain  of  eloquence  which  was  yet 
reverberating  in  their  ears.  Each  felt  the  impulse  in 
himself,  ani,  in  the  same  breath,  caught  it  from  his 
neighbor.  Within  the  church,  it  had  hardly  been  kept 


292  THE  SCARIET  LETTER. 

Gown ;  beneath  the  sky,  it  pealed  upward  to  the  zenitn. 
There  were  human  beings  enough,  and  enough  of 
highly  wrought  and  symphonious  feeling,  to  produce 
that  more  impressive  sound  than  the  organ  tones  of  the 
blast,  or  the  thunder,  or  the  roar  of  the  sea ;  even  thai 
mighty  swell  oi  many  voices,  blended  into  one  great 
voice  by  the  universal  impulse  which  makes  likewise 
one  vast  heart  out  of  the  many.  Never,  from  the  soil 
of  New  England,  had  gone  up  such  a  shout !  Never, 
on  New  England  soil,  had  stood  the  man  so  honored  by 
his  mortal  brethren  as  the  preacher ! 

How  fared  it  with  him  then?  Were  there  not  the 
brilliant  particles  of  a  halo  in  the  air  about  his  head  ? 
So  etherealized  by  spirit  as  he  was,  and  so  apotheosized 
by  worshipping  admirers,  did  his  footsteps,  in  the  proces 
sion,  really  tread  upon  the  dust  of  earth  ? 

As  the  ranks  of  military  men  and  civil  fathers  moved 
onward,  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  point  where 
the  minister  was  seen  to  approach  among  them.  The 
shout  died  into  a  murmur,  as  one  portion  of  the  crowd 
after  another  obtained  a  glimpse  of  him.  How  feeble 
and  pale  he  looked,  amid  all  his  triumph !  The  energy 
—  or  say,  rather,  the  inspiration  which  had  held  him  up, 
until  he  should  have  delivered  the  sacred  message  that 
brought  its  own  strength  along  with  it  from  heaven  — 
was  withdrawn,  now  that  it  had  so  faithfully  performed 
its  office.  The  glow,  which  they  had  just  before  beheld 
burning  on  his  cheek,  was  extinguished,  like  a  flame 
that  sinks  down  hopelessly  among  the  late-decaying 
embers.  It  seened  hardly  the  face  of  a  man  aJive,  with 
nuch  a  deathlike  hue;  it  was  hardly  a  man  with  life  in 


THE    REVELATION    OF    THE    SCAKLET    LETTEI,, 

him,  that  tottered  on  his  path  so  nervelessly  yet  tot 
tered,  and  did  not  fall ! 

One  of  his  clerical  brethren,  —  it  was  the -venerable 
John  Wilson,  —  observing  the  state  in  which  Mr.  Dirn- 
mesdale  was  left  by  the  retiring  wave  of  intellect  and 
sensibility,  stepped  forward  hastily  to  offer  his  support. 
The  minister  tremulously,  but  decidedly,  repelled  the  old 
man's  arm.  He  still  walked  onward,  if  that  movement 
could  be  so  described,  which  rather  resembled  the  waver 
ing  effort  of  an  infant,  with  its  mother's  arms  in  view, 
outstretched  to  tempt  him  forward.  And  no\v,  almost 
imperceptible  as  were  the  latter  steps  of  his  progress,  he 
had  come  opposite  the  well -remembered  and  weather- 
darkened  scaffold,  where,  long  since,  with  all  that  dreary 
lapse  of  time  between,  Hester  Prynne  had  encountered 
the  world's  ignominious  stare.  There  stood  Hester, 
holding  little  Pearl  by  the  hand  !  And  there  was  the 
scarlet  letter  on  ner  breast !  The  minister  here  made  a 
pause ;  although  the  music  still  played  the  stately  and 
rejoicing  march  to  which  the  procession  moved.  It 
summoned  him  onward,  —  onward  to  the  festival! — but 
here  he  made  a  pause. 

Bellingham,  for  the  last  few  moments,  had  kept  an 
anxious  eye  upon  him.  He  now  left  his  own  place  in 
the  procession,  and  advanced  to  give  assistance ;  judging, 
from  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  aspect,  that  he  must  otherwise 
inevitably  fall.  But  there  was  something  in  the  latters 
expression  that  warned  back  thr  magistrate,  although  a 
man  not  readily  obeying  the  vague  intimations  that  pasa 
from  one  spirit  to  another.  The  crowd,  meanwhile, 
ooked  on  with  a\\e  and  wonder.  This  earthly  faintnes* 
was  in  their  view,  only  another  phase  of  the 


894  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

celestial  strength ;  nor  would  it  have  seemed  a  miracle 
too  nigh  to  be  wrought  for  one  so  holy,  had  he  ascended 
before  then  eyes,  waxing  dimmer  and  brighter,  and 
fading  at  last  into  the  light  of  heaven ! 

He  turned  towards  the  scaffold,  and  stretched  forth  his 
arms. 

"  Hester,"  said  he,  "  come  hither !  Come,  my  little 
Pearl!" 

It  was  a  ghastly  look  with  which  he  regarded  them ; 
but  there  was  something  at  once  tender  and  strangely 
triumphant  in  it.  The  child,  with  the  bird-like  motion 
which  was  one  of  her  characteristics,  flew  to  him,  and 
clasped  her  arms  about  his  knees.  Hester  Prynne  — 
slowly,  as  if  impelled  by  inevitable  fate,  and  against  her 
strongest  will  —  likewise  drew  near,  but  paused  before 
she  reached  him.  At  this  instant,  old  Roger  Chilling- 
worth  thrust  himself  through  the  crowd,  —  or,  perhaps,  sc 
dark,  disturbed  and  evil,  was  his  look,  he  rose  up  out  of 
some  nether  region, — to  snatch  back  his  victim  fron. 
what  he  sought  to  do !  Be  that  as  it  might,  the  old  man 
mshed  forward,  and  caught  the  minister  by  the  arm. 

"Madman,  hold!  what  is  your  purpose?"  whispered 
he.  "  Wave  back  that  woman !  Cast  off  this  child  ! 
All  shall  be  well!  Do  not  blacken  your  fame,  and 
perish  in  dishonor !  I  can  yet  save  you  •  Would  you 
bring  infamy  on  your  sacred  profession  ? " 

"Ha,  tempter!  Mp.thinks  thou  art  too  late!"  an 
swered  the  minister,  encountering  his  eye,  fearfully,  hit 
firmly.  "Thy  power  is  not  what  it  was  '  With  God's 
help,  I  shall  escape  thee  now!" 

He  again  extended  his  hand  to  the  woman  of  the 
Kcarlet  letter. 


THE    REVELATION    CF    THE    SCARLET    LETTER.        295 

'*'  Hester  Prynne,"  cried  he,  with  a  piercing  earnest- 
IYCSS.  "  in  the  name  of  Him,  so  terrible  and  so  merciful, 
who  gives  me  grace,  at  this  last  moment,  to  do  what  — 
for  my  own  heavy  sin  and  miserable  agony —  I  withheld 
myself  from  doing  seven  year?,  ago,  come  hither  now, 
and  twine  thy  strength  about  me !  Thy  strength,  Hester , 
but  let  it  be  guided  by  the  will  which  God  hath  granted 
me  !  This  wretched  and  wronged  old  man  is  opposing 
it  with  all  his  might ! — .with  all  his  own  might,  and  the 
fiend's !  Come,  Hester,  come  !  Support  me  up  yondei 
scaffold!" 

The  crowd  was  in  a  tumult.  The  men  of  rank  ana 
dignity,  who  stood  more  immediately  around  the  clergy 
man,  were  so  taken  by  surprise,  and  so  perplexed  as  to 
the  purport  of  what  they  saw,  —  unable  to  receive  the- 
explanation  which  most  readily  presented  itself,  or  to 
:'magine  any  other,  —  that  they  remained  silent  and 
inactive  spectators  of  the  judgment  which  Providence 
seemed  about  to  work.  They  beheld  file  minister,  lean 
ing  on  Hester's  shoulder,  and  supported  by  her  arm 
around  him,  approach  the  scaffold,  and  ascend  its  step  * 
while  still  the  little  hand  of  the  sin-born  child  was 
clasped  in  his.  Old  Roger  Chillingworth  followed,  as 
one  intimately  connected  with  the  drama  of  guilt  and 
sorrow  in  which  they  had  all  been  actors,  and  wel/ 
entitled,  therefore,  to  be  present,  at  its  closing  scene. 

"  Hadst  thou  sought  the  whole  earth  over/'  said  he, 
looking  darkly  at  the  clergyman,  "there  was  no  one 
place  so  secret,  — no  high  place  nor  lowly  place,  where 
tho«i  couldst  have  escaped  me,  — -  save  on  this*  ven 
scaffold!' 


296  THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

44  Thanks  be  to  Him  who  hath  led  me  hithei  !'"an 
swered  the  minister. 

Yet  he  trembled,  and  turned  to  Hester  with  an  ex 
pression  of  doubt  and  anxiety  in  his  eyes,  not  the  less 
evidently  betrayed,  that  there  was  a  feeble  smile  upon 
his  lips. 

"  Is  not  this  better,"  murmured  he,  "  than  what  we 
dreamed  of  in  the  forest  ?  " 

"I  know  not!  I  know  not  .'"she  hurriedly  replied. 
"Better?  Yea;  so  we  may  both  die,  and  little  Pearl 
die  with  us  !  " 

"  For  thee  and  Pearl,  be  it  as  God  shall  order."  said 
the  minister;  "and  God  is  merciful  !  Let  me  now  do 
the  will  which  he  hath  made  plain  before  my  sight. 
For,  Hester,  I  am  a  dying  man.  So  let  me  make  haste 
to  take  my  shame  upon  rne  !  " 

Partly  supported  by  Hester  Prynne,  and  hoi  ling  one 
hand  of  little  Peak's,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dimme?rl:  le 
turned  to  the  dignified  and  venerable  rulers  ;  to  the  holy 
ministers,  who  were  his  brethren;  J:o  the  people,  whose 
great  heart  was  tlioroughly  appalled,  yet  orerflowing 
with  tearful  sympathy,  as  knowing  that  some  deep  life- 
matter  —  "wtiich7TTHfiill"of  sin,  was  full  of  an 


repentance  likewjs^j^^^as-Jirigitg^be  laid  open  to  jh 
Th?  sun,  but  little  past  its  meridian,  shone  down  upon  tbo 
cler^man,  and  gave  a  distinctness  to  his  figure,  PS  b° 
stood  out  frDm  all  the  earth,  to  put  in  his  plea  of  polity 
at  the  bar  of  Eternal  Justice. 

"  People  of  New  England  !"  cried  he,  with  a  voi:r- 
that  rose  over  them,  high,  solemn,  and  majestic,  —  yet 
had  always  a  tremor  through  it,  and  sometimes  a  stolen, 
Htruggling  up  out  of  a  fathomless  drprh  of  remorse  »nJ 


1HH    REVELATION    OF    THE    SCARLET    LETTER.         29* 

^(y,  _  . «  ye,  that  have  loved  me  !  ~ye,  that  have 
deemed  me  holy !  — behold  me  here,  the  j)ne  sinner  of 
the'^world"!  At  lastT^at^  last^j—  l^stand  upon_ih.e 
spot  whore,  seven  years  since,  I  should  have  stood; 
here,  with  this  woman,  whose  arm,  more  than  the  little 
strength  wherewith  I  have  crept  hitherward,  sustains 
me,  at  this  dreadful  moment,  from  grovelling  down  upon 
my  face !  Lo,  the  scarlet  letter  which  Hester  wears ! 
Ye  have  all  shuddered  at  it !  Wherever  her  walk  hath 
been,  —  wherever,  so  miserably  burdened,  she  may  have 
heped  to  find  repose,  —  it  hath  cast  a  lurid  gleam  of 
awa  and  horrible  repugnance  round  about  her.  But 
there  stood  one  in  the  midsi  of  you,  at  whose  brand  of 
sin  and  infamy  ye  have  not  shuddered ! " 

It  seemed,  at  this  point,  as  if  the  minister  must 
leave  the  remainder  of  his  secret  undisclosed.  But  he 
fought  back  the  bodily  weakness,  —  and,  still  more,  the 
faintness  of  heart,  —  that  was  striving  for  the  mastery 
with  him.  He  threw  off  all  assistance,  and  stepped 
passionately  forward  a  pace  before  the  woman  and  the 
child. 

"  It  was  on  him  ! "  he  continued,  with  a  kind  of 
fierceness ;  so  determined  was  he  to  speak  out  the 
whole.  "  God's  eye  beheld  it !  The  angels  were  for 
ever  pointing  at  it !  The  Devil  knew  it  well,  and  fretted 
it  continually  with  the  touch  of  his  burning  finger  !  Bui 
he  hid  it  cunningly  from  men,  and  walked  among  you 
with  the  mien  of  a  spirit,  mournful,  because  so  pure  in  a 
sinful  worli  !  —  and  sad,  because  he  missed  his  heavenly 
kindred  !  Now,  at  the  death-hour,  he  stands  up  before 
you  !  He  oids  you  look  again  at  Hester's  scarlet  letter . 
He  tells  you,  that  with  all  its  mysterious  horror,  it  is 


298  THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 

but  the  shadow  of  what  he  bears  on  his  own  breast, 
that  even  this,  his  own  red  stigma,  is  no  moie  than  the 
type  of  what  has  seared  his  inmost  heart !  Stand  any 
here  that  question  God's  judgment  on  a  sinner  ?  Be 
hold  !  Behold  a  dreadful  witness  of  it !  " 

With  a  convulsive  motion,  he  tore  a\vay  the  minis 
terial  band  from  before  his  breast.,  It  was  revealed*! 
But  it  were  irreverent  to  describe  that  revelation.  For 
En  instant,  the  gaze  of  the  horror-stricken  multitude  was 
concentred  on  the  gl:  astly  miracle ;  while  the  minister 
stood,  with  a  flush  of  triumph  in  his  face,  as  one  who,  in 
the  crisis  of  acutest  pain,  had  won  a  victory.  Then, 
down  he  sank  upon  the  scaffold  !  Hester  partly  raised 
him,  and  supported  his  head  against  her  bosom.  Old 
Roger  Chillingworth  knelt  dowrn  beside  him,  with  a 
blank,  dull  countenance,  out  of  which  the  life  seemed  tn 
to  have  departed. 

"Thou  hast  escaped  me!"  he  repeated  more  than 
once.  "  Thou  hast  escaped  me !  " 

"  May  God  forgive  thee  !  "  said  the  minister.  "  Thou, 
too,  hast  deeply  sinned  !  " 

He  withdrew  his  dying  eyes  from  the  old  man,  and 
fixed  them  on  the  woman  and  the  child. 

"  My  little  Pearl,"  said  he,  feebly,  —  and  there  was  a 
sweet  and  gentle  smile  over  his  face,  as  of  a  spirit  sink 
ing  into  deep  repose ;  nay,  now  that  the  burden  was 
removed,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  he  would  be  sportive 
with  the  child,  —  "  dear  little  Pearl,  wilt  thou  kiss  rne 
QOW  ?  Thou  wouldst  not,  yonder,  in  the  forest !  Bui 
now  thou  wilt  ? " 

Pearl  kissed  his  lips.  A  sp°ll  was  broken  The  great 
scene  of  grief,  in  which  the  wild  infant  bore  a  part,  had 
deveuped  all  her  vympnthies  ;  jind^asJp^r-tearsfell  upo*? 


THE    REVELATION    OF    THE    SCARLET    LETTER.         299 

the  pledge  that  she  would 


was  all  fulfilled. 

"  Hester,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  farewell  I  " 

u  Shall  we  not  meet  again  ?  "  whispered  she,  bending 
her  face  down  close  to  his.  "  Shall  we  not  spend  our 
immortal  life  together  ?  Surely,  surely,  we  have  ran 
somed  one  •  another,  with  all  this  woe  I  Thou  lookest 
tar  into  eternity,  with  those  bright  dying  eyes  !  Then 
tell  me  what  thou  seest  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Hester,  hush  !  "  said  he,  with  tremulous 
solemnity.  "  The  law  we  broke  !  —  the  sin  here  sc» 
awfully  revealed  !  —  let  these  alone  be  in  thy  thoughts  ' 
I  fear  !  I  fear  !  It  may  be,  that,  when  we  forgot  our 
God,  —  when  we  violated  our  reverence  each  for  the 
other's  soul,  —  it  was  thenceforth  vain  to  hope  that  we 
could  meet  hereafter,  in  an  everlasting  and  pure  re 
union.  God  knows  ;  and  He  is  merciful  !  He  had? 
proved  his  mercy,  most  of  all,  in  my  afflictions.  By 
giving  me  this  burning  torture  to  bear  upon  my  breast  ! 
By  sending  yonder  dark  and  terrible  old  man,  to  keep 
the  torture  always  at  red-heat  !  By  bringing  me  hither, 
to  die  this  death  of  triumphant  ignominy  before  the  peo 
ple  !  Had  either  of  these  agonies  been  wanting,  I  had 
been  lost  forever  !  Praised  be  his  name  !  His  will  bo 
done  !  Farewell  !  K 

That  final  word  came  forth  with  the  minister's  ex 
piling  breath.  The  multitude,  silent  till  then,  broke  oui 
in  a  strange,  deep  voice  of  pw*and  wonder,  which  could 
not  as  yet  find  utterance,  save  in  this  murmur  that  rolleu 
«o  heavily  after  the  departe^  spirit 


300  THE  SCABLET  LEFTER. 


XXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

i 
AFTBH   many  days,  when  time  sufficed  for  tht  people 

to  arrange  their  thoughts  in  reference  to  the  foregoing 
scene,  there  was  more  than  one  account  of  what  had 
been  witnessed  on  the  scaffold. 

Most  of  the  spectators  testified  to  having  seen,  on  the 
breast  of  the  unhappy  minister,  a  SCARLET  LETTER  —  the 
very  semblance  of  that  worn  by  Hester  Prynne  —  im 
printed  in  the  flesh.  As  regarded  its  origin,  there  were 
various  explanations,  all  of  which  must  necessarily  have 
been  conjectural.  Some  affirmed  that  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dimrnesdale,  on  the  very  day  when  Hester  Prynne  first 
wore  her  ignominious  badge,  had  begun  a  course  of  pen 
ance,  —  which  he  afterwards,  in  so  many  futile  methods, 
followed  out,  —  by  inflicting  a  hideous  torture  on  him 
self.  Others  contended  that  the  stigma  had  not  been 
produced  until  a  long  time  subsequent,  when  old  Roger 
Chilling-worth,  being  a  potent  necromancer,  had  caused 
h  to  appear,  through  the  agency  of  magic  ^nd  poisonous 
drugs.  Others,  again,  —  and  those  best  abJe  to  appre 
ciate  the  minister's  peculiar  sensibility,  and  the  wonder 
ful  operation  of  his  spirit  upon  the  body,  —  whispered 
their  belief,  that  the  awful  symbol  was  the  effect  of  the 
ever  active  tooth  of  remorse,  gnawing  from  the  inmost 
heart  outwardly,  and  at  last  manifesting  Heaven's  dread 
ful  judgment  by  the  visible  presence  oi  *he  If  tter.  The 
Deader  may  choose  among  theso  theories.  We  h«ve 


CONCLUSION.  HOT 

all  the  light  we  could  acquire  upon  the  portent 
Mid  would  gladly,  now  that  it  has  done  its  office,  e*ase 
its  deep  print  out  of  our  own  brain;  where  long  medita 
tion  has  fixed  it  in  very  undesirable  distinctness. 

[t  is  singu]ar,  nevertheless,  that  certain  persons,  wh.i 
were  spectators  of  the  whole  scene,  and  professed  neve* 
once  to  have  removed  their  eyes  from  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Dimmesdale,  denied  that  there  was  any  mark  whatever 
on  his  breast,  more  than  on  a  new-born  infant's.  Neither, 
by  their  report,  had  his  dying  words  acknowledged,  noi 
even  remotely  implied,  any,  the  slightest  connection,  OP 
his  part,  with  the  guilt  for  which  Hester  Prynne  had  s'j 
long  worn  the  scarlet  letter.  According  to  these  high'y 
respectable  witnesses,  the  minister,  conscious  that  he  was 
dying,  —  conscious,  also,  that  the  reverence  of  the  mul 
titude  placed  him  already  among  saints  and  angels,  — 
had  desired,  by  yielding  up  his  breath  in  the  arms  of  that 
fallen  woman,  to  express  to  the  world  how  utterly  nuga 
tory  is  the  choicest  of  man's  own  righteousness.  A*ter 
exhausting  life  in  his  efforts  for  mankind's  spiritual  good, 
he  had  made  the  manner  of  his  death  a  parable,  in  order 
to  impress  on  his  admirers  the  mighty  and  mournful  l^s- 
son,  that,  in  the  view  of  Infinite  Purity,  we  are  sinners 
nil  alike.  It  was  to  teach  them,  that  the  holiest  among 
us  has  but  attained  so  far  above  his  fellows  as  to  discern 
more  clearly  the  Mercy  which  looks  down,  and  repudiate 
more  utterly  the  phantom  of  human  merit,  which  woald 
look  aspiringly  upward.  Without  disputing  a  truth  so 
momentous,  we  must  be  allowed  to  consider  this  version 
of  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  story  as  only  an  instance  of  that 
stubborn  fidelity  with  which  a  man's  friends  —  and 
especially  a  clergyman's  —  will  sometimes  uphold  his 


THE    SCARLET    LETTER. 

charactei ,  when  proofs,  clear  as  the  mid-day  sun  shim 
on  the  scarlet  letter,  establish  him  a  false  and  sin-stained 
creature  of  the  dust. 

The  authority  which  we  have  chiefly  followed,  — » 
manuscript  of  old  date,  drawn  up  from  the  verbal  testi 
mony  of  individuals,  some  of  whom  had  known  Hestei 
Prynne,  while  others  had  heard  the  tale  from  contempo 
rary  witnesses,  —  fully  confirms  the  view  taken  in  the 
foregoing  pages.  Among  many^mnralaAKhich-  .prasg.  u pon 
us  from  the  poorthinister's  miserable  experience,  we  put 
only  tljus  mt^  true  !  Be  true !  Be 

'true!  Show,  freely  to  the  world,  if  not  "your  worst,  yet 
some  trait jvjiereby  the  worst  may  be  inferred  !  " 

Nothing  was  more  remarkable  than  the  change  which 
took  place,  almost  immediately  after  Mr.  Dimmesdale's 
death,  in  the  appearance  and  demeanor  of  the  old  man 
known  as  Roger  Chilling-worth.  All  his  strength  and 
energy  —  all  his  vital  and  intellectual  force  —  seemed  at 
once  to  desert  him ;  insomuch  that  he  positively  withered  . 
up,  shrivelled  away,  and  almost  vanished  from  mortal 
sight,  like  an  uprooted  weed  that  lies  wilting  in  the  sun. 
This  unhappy  man  had  made  the  very  principle  of  his 
life  to  consist  in  the  pursuit  and  systematic  exercise  of 
revenge ;  and  when,  by  its  completest  triumph  and  con 
summation,  that  evil  principle  was  left  with  no  furthei 
material  to  support  it,  when,  in  short,  there  was  no 
more  Devil's  work  on  earth  for  him  to  do,  it  only  remained 
for  the  urihumanized  mortal  to  betake  himself  whithei 
his  Master  would  find  him  tasks  enough,  and  pay  him 
his  wages  duly.  But,  to  all  these  shadowy  beings,  so 
long  our  near  acquaintances,  —  as  well  Roger  Chilling- 
worth  at  his  companions,  —  we  would  fain  be  merciful 


CONCLLS.ON. 

It  is  i  curious  sublet jof-obsermtioft-aftd-iaqukyv  whether 
i^atred  ajod Jjoye-be  BO!  the-same  thit^g-at-bQt.tpin^  Each, 
in  its  utmost  development,  supposes,  a  high  degree  of" 
intimacy  and  hcarkknovrledge  ^.eaxiL^r^d^r^jme-ittdU,. 
vidual  dependent  for  the  food  of JysjLffections^.nd  spirit' 
uallife  upon  another;  j3a.ch  leaves  the^passionate  lover : 
or  the  no  less  .  paiSettate  M'fef ,  foi  lorn^fwid_il£so]ate  by 
withdrawal  of  his  subject.  Philosophically  consid 
ered",  fherefore,  the  two  passions  seem  essentially  the 
same,  except  jhat  onehaDpens_to  be  seen  in  a  celestial 

ja.diaiice^and  the  otherjjnja_duj^lind  lufio!~gfosr.  Ii  i 
jrl^r&e  -old:  physician  and  the  ministei 
f»e-»€-4h€^  hay£_be.en_r=^may,  unawares, 

^Jiave  founji^their  earthly  stock  ^jL-hatred  and  an4Jpattry 

43^nsinuted_intp  golden  love. 

Leaving  this  discussion  apart,  we  have  a  matter  of 
business  to  communicate  to  the  reader.  At  old  Roger 
Chillingworth's  decease,  (which  took  place  within  the 
year,)  and  by  his  last  will  and  testament,  of  which  Gov 
ernor  Bellingham  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilson  were 
executors,  he  bequeathed  a  very  considerable  amount  of 
property,  both  here  and  in  England,  to  little  Pearl,  the 
daughter  of  Hester  Prynne. 

So  Pearl  —  the  elf-child,  —  the  demon  offspring,  as 
some  people,  up  to  that  epoch,  persisted  in  considering 
her,  —  brcame  the  richest  heiress  of  her  day,  in  the  Ne*s 
W:?ld.  Not  improbably,  this  circumstance  wrought  a 
rery  material  change  in  the  public  estimation  ;  and,  ha  d 
the  mother  and  child  remained  here,  little  Pearl,  at  a 
marriageable  period  of  life,  might  have  mingled  her  wild 
Wood  with  the  lineage  of  the  devoutest  Puritan  among 
them  all.  But,  in  no  long  time  after  the 


104  THE    SCARLET    Li  »'TKR.  . 

death,  ihe  wearer  of  the  scarlet  letter  disappeaied,  ana 
Pearl  along  with  her.  -For  many  years,  thougn  a  vague 
report  would  now  and  then  find  its  way  across  the  sea, 

—  like  a  shapeless  piece  of  driftwood  tost  ashore,  with 
the  initials  of  a  name  upon  it,  —  yet  no  tidings  of  them 
unquestionably  authentic  were  received.     The  story  of 
the  scarlet  letter  grew  into  a  legend.    Its  spell,  however, 
tras  still  potent,  and  kept  the  sca'fibld  awful  where  the 
ooor  minister  had  died,  and  likewise  the  cottage  by  the 
?ea-shore,  where   Hester  Prynne  had  dwelt.     Near  this 
atter  spot,  one  afternoon,  some  children  were  at  play, 
ivhen  they  beheld  a  tall  woman,  in  a  gray  robe,  approach 
the  cottage-door.     In  all  those  years  it  had  never  once 
3een  opened ;  but  either  she  unlocked  it,  or  the  decaying 
arood  and  iron  yielded  to  her  hand,  or  she  glided  shadow- 
ike  through  these   impediments,  —  arid,  at  all  events, 
went  in. 

On  the  threshold  she  paused,  —  turned  partly  round, 

—  for,  perchance,  the  idea  of  entering  all  alone,  and  all 
so  changed,  the  home  of  so  intense  a  former  life,  was 
more  dreary  and  desolate  than  even  she  could  bear.    But 
her  hesitation  was  only  for   an   instant,  though    long 
Rnough  to  display  a  scarlet  letter  on  her  breast. 

And  Hester  Prynne  had  returned,  and  taken  up  her 
ong-forsaken  shame  !  But  where  was  little  Pearl  ?  If 
still  aiive,  she  must  now  have  been  in  the  flush  and 
bloom  of  early  womanhood.  None  knew — nor  ever 
learned,  with  the  fulness  of  perfect  certaintj  — whether 
the  elf-child  had  gone  thus  untimely  to  a  maiden  grave ; 
or  whether  her  wild,  rich  nature  had  been  softened  and 
subdued,  and  made  capable  of  a  woman's  gentle  happi 
ness,  But,  through  the  remainder  of  Hester's  life,  ther* 


•CONCLUSION. 

were  indications  that  the  recluse  of  the  scarlet  letter  was 
the  object  of  love  and  interest  with  some  inhabitant  ol 
'another  land.  Letters  came,  with  armorial  seals  upon 
tht'in,  though  of  bearings  unknown  to  English  heraldry, 
on  the  cottage  there  were  articles  of  comfort  and  luxury 
such  as  Hester  never  cared  to  use,  but  which  only  wealth 
could  have  purchased,  and  affection  have  imagined  for 
her.  There  were  trifles,  too,  little  ornaments,  beautiful 
tokens  of  a  continual  remembrance,  that  must  have  been 
wrought  by  delicate  fingers,  at  the  impulse  of  a.  ford 
heart.  And,  once,  Hester  was  seen  embroidering  a  baby 
garment,  with  such  a  lavish  richness  of  golden  fancy  as 
would  have  raised  a  public  tumult,  had  any  infant,  thus 
apparelled,  been  shown  to  our  sober-hued  community. 

In  fine,  the  gossips  of  that  day  believed,  —  and  Mr. 
Surveyor  Pue,  who  made  investigations  a  century  later, 
believed,  —  and  one  of  his  recent  successors  in  officr, 
moreover,  faithfully  believes,  —  that  Pearl  was  not  only 
alive,  but  married,  and  happy,  and  mindful  of  her  mother 
and  that  she  would  most  joyfully  have  entertained  that 
sad  and  lonely  mother  at  her  fireside. 

But  there  was  a  more  real  life  for  Hester  Prynne 
here,  in  New  England,  than  in  that  unknown  region 
where  Pearl  had  found  a  home.  Here  had  been  her  sin; 
nere,  her  sorrow ;  and  here  was  yet  to  be  her  penitence. 
She  had  returned,  therefore,  and  resumed,  —  of  her  own 
tree  will,  for  not  the  sternest  magistrate  of  that  iron  period 
would  have  imposed  it,  —  resumed  the  symbol  of  which 
we  have  related  so  dark  a  tale.  Never  afterwards  did 
it  quit  her  bosom.  But,  in  the  lapse  of  the  toilsome, 
thoughtful,  and  self-devoted  years  that  made  up  Hester's 
life,  the  scarlet  letter  ceased  to  be  a  stigma  wh'ch  at 
20 


tf  '111E    SCAHLET    LETTER. 

tracted  the  world's  scorn  and  bitterness,  and  became  £ 
type  of  something  to  be  sorrowed  over,  and  looked  upon 
with  awe,  yet  with  reverence  too.  And,  as  Hester 
Prynne  had  no  selfish  ends.,  nor  lived  in  any  measure 
for  her  own  profit  and  enjoyment,  people  brought  all 
their  sorrows  and  perplexities,  and  besought  her  counsel, 
as  one  wno  had  herself  gone  through  a  mighty  trouble. 
Women,  more  especially,  —  in  the  continually  recurring 
trials  of  wounded,  wasted,  wronged,  misplaced,  or  erring 
and  sinful  passion,  — or  with  the  dreary  burden  of  a 
heart  unyielded,  because  unvalued  and  unsought,  — 
mme  to  Hester's  cottage,  demanding  why  they  were  so 
wretched,  arid  what  the  remedy!  Hester  comforted  and 
counselled  them,  as  best  she  might.  She  assured  them, 
too,  of  her  firm  belief,  that,  at  some  brighter  period,  when 
the  world  should  have  grown  ripe  for  it,  in  Heaven's  own 
time,  a  new  truth  would  be  revealed,  in  order  to  establish 
the  whole  relation  between  man  and  woman  on  a  surer 
ground  of  mutual  happiness.  Earlier  in  life,  Hester  had 
vainly  imagined  that  she  herself  might  be  the  destined 
prophetess,  but  had  long  since  recognized  the  impossi 
bility  that  any  mission  of  divine  and  mysterious  truth 
should  be  confided  to  a  woman  stained  with  sin,  bowed 
down  with  shame,  or  even  burdened  with  a  life-long  sor 
row.  The  angel  and  apostle  of  the  coming  revelation 
•nust  be  a  woman,  indeed,  but  lofty,  pure,  and  beautiful; 
Rnd  wise,  moreover,  not  through  dusky  grief,  but  the 
dhereal  medium  of  joy;  and  showing  how  sacred  lovr 
should  make  us  happy,  by  the  truest  test  of  a  life  sue 
ivssful  to  such  an  end  ! 

So  said  Hester  Prynne,  and  glanced  her  sad   eyes 
at  the  scarlet  letter.    And.  aftei  many  many 


CONCLUSION.  307 

years,  a  new  grave  was  delved,  near  an  old  and  sunken 
one,  in  that  burial-ground  beside  which  King's  Chapel 
has  since  been  built.  It  was  near  that  old  and  sunken 
grave,  yet  with  a  space  between,  as  if  the  dust  of  the 
two  sleepers  had  no  right  to  mingle.  Yet  one  tomb 
stone  served  for  both.  All  around,  there  were  monu 
ments  carved  with  armorial  bearings;  and  on  this  simple 
slab  of  slate  —  as  the  curious  investigator  may  still  dis 
cern,  and  perplex  himself  with  the  purport  —  there  ap 
peared  the  semblance  of  an  engraved  escutcheon.  It 
bore  a  device,  a  herald's  wording  of  which  might  serve 
for  a  motto  and  brief  description  of  our  now  concluded 
legend;  so  sombre  is  it,  and  relieved  only  by  one  ever- 
glowing  point  of  light  gloomier  than  the  shadow  :  — 

"ON  A  FIELD,  SABLE,  THE  LETTER  A,  GULES." 


THE  BLITHE  DALE  ROMANCE     See  page  272. 


THE 


BLITHEDALE   ROMANCE. 


PREFACE. 


Ix  the  "BLITHEDALE"  of  this  volume  many 
readers  will,  probably,  suspect  a  faint  and  not  very 
faithful  shadowing  of  BROOK  FARM,  in  Eoxbury, 
which  (now  a  little  more  than  ten  years  ago)  was 
occupied  and  cultivated  by  a  company  of  socialists. 
The  author  does  not  wish  to  deny  that  he  had  this 
community  in  his  mind,  and  that  (having  had  the 
good  fortune,  for  a  time,  to  be  personally  connected 
with  it)  he  has  occasionally  availed  himself  of  his 
actual  reminiscences,  in  the  hope  of  giving  a  more 
life-like  tint  to  the  fancy-sketch  in  the  following 
pages.  He  begs  it  to  be  understood,  however,  that 
he  has  considered  the  institution  itself  as  not  less 
fairly  the  subject  of  fictitious  handling  than  the 
imaginary  personages  whom  he  has  introduced 
there.  His  whole  treatment  of  the  affair  is  alto 
gether  incidental  to  the  main  purpose  of  the  ro 
mance  ;  nor  does  he  put  forward  the  slightest  pre 
tensions  to  illustrate  a  theory,  or  elicit  a  conclusion, 
favorable  or  otherwise,  in  respect  to  socialism. 
In  short,  his  present  concern  with  the  socialist 


PREFACE. 


community  is  merely  to  establish  a  theatre,  a  littla 
removed  from  the  highway  of  ordinary  travel,  where 
the  creatures  of  his  brain  may  play  their  phantasma- 
gorical  antics,  without  exposing  them  to  too  close  a 
comparison  with  the  actual  events  of  real  lives.  In  the 
old  countries,  with  which  fiction  has  long  been  con 
versant,  a  certain  conventional  privilege  seems  to  be 
awarded  to  the  romancer ;  his  work  is  not  put  exactly 
side  by  side  with  nature  ;  and  he  is  allowed  a  license 
with  regard  to  every-day  probability,  in  view  of  the 
improved  effects  which  he  is  bound  to  produce  thereby. 
Among  ourselves,  on  the  contrary,  there  is  as  yet  no 
such  Faery  Land,  so  like  the  real  world,  that,  in  a 
suitable  remoteness,  one  cannot  well  tell  the  difference, 
but  with  an  atmosphere  of  strange  enchantment,  beheld 
through  which  the  inhabitants  have  a  propriety  of  their 
own.  This  atmosphere  is  what  the  American  romancer 
needs.  In  its  absence,  the  beings  of  imagination  are 
compelled  to  show  themselves  in  the  same  category  aa 
actually  living  mortals  ;  a  necessity  that  generally 
renders  the  paint  and  pasteboard  of  their  composition 
but  too  painfully  discernible.  With  the  idea  of  par 
tially  obviating  this  difficulty  (the  sense  of  which  has 
always  pressed  very  heavily  upon  him),  the  author 
has  ventured  to  make  free  with  his  old  and  affection 
ately  remembered  home  at  BROOK  FARM,  as  being 
certainly  the  most  romantic  episode  of  his  own  life,  — 


PREFACE. 


essentially  a  day-dream,  and  yet  a  fact,  —  and  thos 
offering  an  available  foothold  between  fiction  and  real 
ity.  Furthermore,  the  scene  was  in  good  keeping 
with  the  personages  whom  he  desired  to  introduce. 

These  characters,  he  feels  it  right  to  say,  are  entire 
ly  fictitious.  It  would,  indeed  (considering  how  few 
amiable  qualities  he  distributes  among  his  imaginary 
progeny),  be  a  most  grievous  wrong  to  his  former 
excellent  associates,  -were  the  author  to  allow  it  to  be 
supposed  that  he  has  been  sketching  any  of  their  like 
nesses.  Had  he  attempted  it,  they  would  at  least 
have  recognized  the  touches  of  a  friendly  pencil.  But 
he  has  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  self-concen 
trated  Philanthropist ;  the  high-spirited  Woman,  bruis 
ing  herself  against  the  narrow  limitations  of  her  sex ; 
the  weakly  Maiden,  whose  tremulous  nerves  endow 
her  with  sibylline  attributes ;  the  Minor  Poet,  begin 
ning  life  with  strenuous  aspirations,  which  die  out 
with  his  youthful  fervor ;  —  all  these  might  have  been 
looted  for  at  BROOK  FARM,  but,  by  some  accident 
never  made  their  appearance  there. 

The  author  cannot  close  his  reference  to  this  sub 
ject,  without  expressing  a  most  earnest  wish  that 
some  one  of  the  many  cultivated  and  philosophic 
minds,  which  took  an  interest  in  thtfiT  enterprise, 
might  now  give  the  world  its  history./  Ripley,  with 
whom  rests  the  honorable  paternity  of  the  institution 


?l  FREFACE. 

Dana,  Dwight,  Channing,  Burton,  Parker,  for  in 
Btance>  —  with  others,  whom  he  dares  not  na^ne, 
because  they  veil  themselves  from  the  public  eye,  — 
among  these  is  the  ability  to  convey  both  the  outward 
narrative  and  the  inner  truth  and  spirit  of  the  whole 
affair,  together  with  the  lessons  which  those  years  of 
thought  and  toil  must  have  elaborated,  for  the  behoof 
of  future  experimentalists.  Even  the  brilliant  How 
adji  might  find  as  rich  a  theme  in  his  youthful  remi 
niscences  of  BROOK  FARM,  and  a  more  novel  one,  — 
close  at  hand  as  it  lies,  —  than  those  which  be  haa 
since  made  so  distant  a  pilgrimage  to  &eek.  in 
and  along  the  current  of  the  Nile. 
COMOOBD  'Mass.),  MIT,  1862. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  —  OLD  HOODIE  . »  .  9 

£L  —  BLITHEDALE 14 

HL — A  KNOT  OF  DREAMERS 20 

IV.— THE  SUPPER-TABUS 30 

V.  — UNTIL  BED-TIME 40 

VI.  —  COVERDALE'S  SICK-CHAMBER 48 

VTL—  THE  CONVALESCENT 60 

PLTI. —  A  MODERN  ARCADIA 7C 

IX.  —  HOLLINGSWORTH,   ZENOBIA,    PRISCILLA 83 

X.  —  A   VlSITER   FROM    TOWN 98 

XI.— THE  WOOD-PATH 107 

XH.  —  COVERDALE'S  HERMITAGE  ...........  118 

XUI.  —  ZENOBIA'S  LEGEND 127 

XIV.  —  ELIOT'S  PULPIT 140 

XV.  — A  CRISIS 153 

XVL  —  LEAVE-TAKINGS 163 

XVLL  — THE  HOTEL 172 

tVin.  —  THE  BOARDING-HOUSE 181 

XLX.  — ZENOBII'S  DRAWING-BOOM 189 

XX.    -THEY  VANISH 198 


HI!  CONTENTS. 

PAQl 

XXI.  —  AN   OLD  ACQUAINTANCE    ........       <    .  204 

XXII.  —  FAINTLEROY .....  213 

X.XTTT.  —  A  VILLAGE-HALL 227 

XXIV.  —  THE  MASQUERADEBS 238 

XXV.  —  THE  THREB  TOGETHER 248 

XXVI.  —  ZENOBIA  AND  COVERDALK  ...       . 258 

XXVII.  —  MIDNIGHT .  266 

XXVIII.  —  BLITHEDALE  PASTURE 277 

XXIX.  —  MILES  COVESDAUC'S  COOTHWIO*  .  286 


THE  BLITHEDALE  ROMANCE 


I. 

OLD  MOODIK 

THE  evening  before  my  departure  for  Blithedaie,  1  wa* 
returning  to  my  bachelor  apartments,  after  attending  the 
wonderful  exhibition  of  the  Veiled  Lady,  when  an  elderly 
man,  of  rather  shabby  appearance,  met  me  in  an  obscure 
part  of  the  street. 

"  Mr.  Coverdale,"  said  he,  softly,  "  can  I  speak  with 
you  a  moment  ?  " 

As  I  have  casually  alluded  to  the  Veiled  Lady,  it  mav 
lot  be  amiss  to  mention,  for  the  benefit  of  such  of  my 
waders  as  are  unacquainted  with  her  now  forgotten 
celebrity,  that  she  was  a  phenomenon  in  the  mesmeric 
line  ;  one  of  the  earliest  that  had  indicated  the  birth  of  a 
new  science,  or  the  revival  of  an  old  humbug.  Since 
those  times,  her  sisterhood  have  grown  "too  numerous  to 
attract  much  individual  notice ;  nor,  in  fact,  has  any  one 
of  them  ever  come  before  the  public  under  such  skil fully 
contrived  circumstances  of  stage-effect  as  those  which 
at  once  mystified  and  illuminated  the  remarkable  per 
formances  of  the  lady  in  question.  Now-a-days,  in  tn» 
management  of  his  "subject,"  "clairvoyant,"  or  "me 
dium,"  the  exhibitor  affects  the  simplicity  and  openness 


10  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

of  scientific  experiment;  and  even  if  he  piofesy  to  tread 
a  step  or  two  across  the  boundaries  of  the  spiritual  world 
yet  carries  with  him  the  laws  of  our  actual  life,  and 
extends  them  over  his  preternatural  conquests.  Twelve 
or  fifteen  years  ago,  on  the  contrary,  all  the  arts  of  mys 
terious  arrangement,  of  picturesque  disposition,  and  artis 
tically  contrasted  light  and  shade,  were  made  available, 
in  order  to  set  the  apparent  miracle  in  the  strongest 
attitude  of  opposition  to  ordinary  facts.  In  the  case  of 
the  Veiled  Lady,  moreover,  the  interest  of  the  spectator 
was  further  wrought  up  by  th?  enigma  of  her  identity, 
and  an  absurd  rumor  (probably  set  afloat  by  the  exhib 
itor,  and  at  one  time  very  prevalent),  that  a  beautiful 
young  lady,  of  family  and  fortune,  was  enshrouded 
within  the  misty  drapery  of  the  veil.  It  was  white, 
with  somewhat  of  a  subdued  silver  sheen,  like  the  sunny 
side  of  a  cloud ;  and,  falling  over  the  wearer  from  head 
to  foot,  was  supposed  to  insulate  her  from  the  material 
world,  from  time  and  space,  and  to  endow  her  with  many 
of  the  privileges  of  a  disembodied  spirit. 

Her  pretensions,  however,  whether  miraculous  or  oth 
erwise,  have  little  to  do  with  the  present  narrative 
except,  indeed,  that  I  had  propounded,  for  the  Veiled 
Lady's  prophetic  solution,  a  query  as  to  the  success  of 
our  Blithedale  enterprise.  The  response,  by  the  by,  was  of 
the  true  Sibylline  stamp,  —  nonsensical  in  its  first  as;  ect, 
yet,  on  closer  study,  unfolding  a  variety  of  interpreta 
tions,  one  of  wh.ch  has  certainly  accorded  with  the 
event.  I  was  turning  over  this  riddle  in  my  mind,  and 
trying  to  catch  its  slippery  purport  by  the  tail,  when  the 
t*ld  man  above  mentioned  interiupted  me. 

"  Mr.  Coverdale  !  — Mr.  Coverdale  !  "  said  he,  repeat- 


OLD    MOODIE.  il 

mg  my  name  tvvise,  in  order  to  make  up  for  the  hesitat 
ing  and  ineffectual  way  in  which  he  uttered  it.  "  I  ask 
your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  hear  you  are  going  to  Blitkedale 
ro-morrow." 

I  knew  the  pale,  elderly  face,  with  the  red-tipt  nose; 
and  the  patch  over  one  eye;  and  likewise  saw  something 
characterise^  in  the  old  fellow's  way  of  standing  under 
the  arch  c/  a  gate,  only  revealing  enough  of  himself  to 
make  me  recognize  him  as  an  acquaintance.  He  was  a 
very  shy  personage,  this  Mr.  Moodie ;  and  the  trait  was 
the  more  singular,  as  his  mode  of  getting  his  bread  neces 
sarily  brought  him  into  the  stir  and  hubbub  of  the  world 
more  than  the  generality  of  men. 

"  Y<**!,  Mr.  Moodie,"  I  answered,  wondering  what 
interest  he  could  take  in  the  fact,  "  it  is  my  intention  to 
go  to  Blifhedale  to-morrow.  Can  I  i»e  of  any  service  to 
you  before  my  departure  ?  " 

"  If  you  pleased,  Mr.  Coverdale,"  said  he,  "  you  might 
10  me  a  very  great  favor." 

"  A  very  great  one  ? "  repeated  I,  in  a  tone  that  must 
.  ave  expressed  but  little  alacrity  of  beneficence,  although 
I  was  ready  to  do  the  old  man  any  amount  of  kindness 
involving  no  special  trouble  to  myself.  "  A  very  great 
favor,  do  you  say  ?  My  time  is  brief,  Mr.  Moodie,  and 
I  have  a  good  many  preparations  to  make.  But  be  good 
enough  to  tell  me  what  you  wish." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  replied  Old  Moodie,  "  I  don't  quite  like  to 
do  that ;  and,  on  further  thoughts,  Mr.  Coverdale,  per 
haps  1  had  better  apply  to  some  older  gentleman,  or  to 
some  lady,  if  you  would  have  the  kindness  to  make  me 
«iown  to  one,  who  may  happen  to  be  going  to  Blithedalc 
You  are  a  young  man,  sir !  " 


12  THE,    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

"  Does  that  fact  lessen  my  availability  for  youi  pui^ 
pose  ?  "  asked  I.  "  However,  if  an  older  man  will  suit 
you  better,  there  is  Mr.  Hollingsworth,  who  has  three 
or  four  years  the  advantage  of  me  in  age,  and  is  a  much 
more  solid  character,  and  a  philanthropist  to  boot.  I  am 
only  a  poet,  and,  so  the  critics  tell  me,  no  great  affair  at 
that!  But  what  can  this  business  be,  Mr.  Moodie  ?  It 
begins  to  interest  me  ;  especially  since  your  hint  that  a 
lady's  influence  might  be  found  desirable.  Come,  I  am 
really  anxious  to  be  of  service  to  you." 

But  the  old  fellow,  in  his  civil  and  demure  manner, 
was  both  freakish  and  obstinate  ;  and  he  had  now  taken 
some  notion  or  other  into  his  head  that  made  him  hesi- 
tate  in  his  former  design. 

"  I  wonder,  sir,"  said  he,  "  whether  you  know  a  lady 
whom  they  call  Zenobia  ? " 

"Not  personally,"  I  answered,  "although  1  expect 
that  pleasure  to-morrow,  as  she  has  got  the  start  of  the 
rest  of  us,  and  is  already  a  resident  at  Blithedale.  But 
•have  you  a  literary  turn,  Mr.  Moodie?  or  have  you 
taken  up  the  advocacy  of  women's  rights  ?  or  what  else 
can  have  interested  you  in  this  lady  ?  Zenobia,  by  the 
by,  as  I  suppose  you  know,  is  merely  her  public  name ; 
a  sort  of  mask  in  which  she  comes  before  the  world 
retaining  all  the  privileges  of  privacy,  —  a  contrivance 
in  short,  like  the  white  drapery  of  the  Veiled  Lady,  only 
a  little  more  transparent.  But  it  is  late.  Will  you  tell 
me  what  I  can  do  for  you  ? " 

"  Please  to  excuse  me  to-night,  Mr.  Coverdale,'  said 
Moodie.  "  You  are  very  kind ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  have 
troubled  you,  when,  after  all,  there  may  be  no  need 
Perhaps,  with  your  good  leave,  I  will  come  to  your  lodg 


OLD   MOODffi.  13 

mgs  to-morrow  morning,  before  you  set  out  for  Blithe- 
dale.  I  wish  you  a  good-night,  sir,  and  beg  pardon  for 
stopping  you." 

And  so  he  slipt  away ;  and,  as  he  did  not  show  him 
self  the  next  morning,  it  was  only  through  subsequent 
svents  that  I  ever  arrived  at  a  plausible  conjecture 
as  to  what  his  business  could  have  been.  Arriving  at 
my  room,  I  threw  a  lump  of  cannel  coal  upon  the  grate, 
lighted  a  cigar,  and  spent  an  hour  in  musings  of  every 
hue,  from  the  brightest  to  the  most  sombre ;  being,  in 
truth,  not  so  very  confident  as  at  some  former  periods 
that  this  final  step,  which  would  mix  me  up  inv/ocably 
with  the  Blithedale  affair,  was  the  wisest  that  could  pos 
sibly  be  taken.  It  was  nothing  short  of  midnight  when 
I  went  to  bed,  after  drinking  a  glass  of  particularly 
fine  sherry,  on  which  I  used  to  pride  myself,  in  those 
days.  It  was  the  very  last  bottle;  and  I  finished  it, 
with  a  friend  the  next  forenoon,  before  setting  out  for 
B  ithedale. 


II. 

BLITHEDALE. 

THERE  can  hardly  remain  f^r  me  (wlu  am 
getting  to  be  a  frosty  bachelor,  with  another  white  hair, 
every  week  or  so,  in  rny  moustache),  there  can  hardly 
flicker  up  again  so  cheery  a  blaze  upon  the  hearth,  as 
that  which  I  remember,  the  next  day,  at  Blithedale.  It 
was  a  wood-fire,  in  the  parlor  of  an  old  farm-house,  on 
an  April  afternoon,  but  with  the  fitful  gusts  of  a  win 
try  snow-storm  roaring  in  the  chimney.  Vividly  does 
that  fireside  re-create  itself,  as  I  rake  away  the  ashes 
from  the  embers  in  my  memory,  and  blow  them  up  with 
a  sigh  for  lack  of  more  ins^'ring  breath.  Vividly,  for 
an  instant,  but,  anon,  with  the  dimmest  gleam,  and  w'th 
just  as  little  fervency  for  my  heart  as  for  my  finger- 
ends  !  The  stanch  oaken  logs  were  long  ago  burnt 
out.  Their  genial  glow  must  be  represented,  if  at  all 
by  the  merest  phosphoric  glimmer,  like  that  which 
exudes,  rather  than  shines,  from  damp  fragments  of 
decayed  trees,  deluding  the  benighted  wanderer  through 
a  forest.  Around  such  chill  mockery  of  a  fire  some 
few  of  us  might  sit  on  the  withered  leaves,  spreading 
out  each  a  palm  towards  the  imaginary  warmth,  and 
talk  over  our  exploded  scheme  for  beginning  the  life  of 
Paradise  anew. 

Paradise,  indeed!     Nobody  else  in  the  world,  I  am 
bold  1o  affirm    —  n.)body,  at  leaat,  in  our  bleak  little 


BLITHE  DALE.  15 

of  Neu  England,  —  had  dreamed  of  Paradise 
'hat  day,  except  as  the  pole  suggests  the  tropic.  Nor, 
with  such  materials  as  were  at  hai  d,  could  the  most 
skilful  architect  have  constructed  any  better  imitation  of 
Eve's  hower  than  might  b3  seen  in  the  snow-hut  of  an 
Esquimaux.  But  we  made  a  summer  of  it,  in  spite  of 
the  wild  drifts. 

It  was  an  April  day, as  already  hinted,  and  well  towards 
the  middle  of  the  month.  When  morning  dawned 
upon  me,  in  town,  its  temperature  was  mild  enough  to 
be  pronounced  even  balmy,  by  a  lodger,  like  myself, 
in  one  of  the  midmost  houses  of  a  brick  block,  —  each 
house  partaking  of  the  warmth  of  all  the  rest,  besides 
the  sultriness  of  its  individual  furnace-heat.  But, 
Awards  noon,  there  had  come  snow,  driven  along  the 
street  by  a  north-easterly  blast,  and  whitening  the  roofs 
and  side-walks  with  a  business-like  perseverance  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  our  severest  January  tempest. 
It  set  about  its  task  apparently  as  much  in  earnest  as 
if  it  had  been  guaranteed  from  a  thaw  for  months  to 
come.  The  greater,  surely,  was  my  heroism,  when,  puff 
ing  out  a  final  whiff  of  cigar-smoke,  I  quitted  my  cosey 
pair  of  bachelor-rooms,  —  with  a  good  fire  burning  in  the 
grate,  and  a  closet  right  at  hand,  where  there  was  still  a 
bottle  or  two  in  the  champagne -basket,  ajid  a  res  id  uu  in 
of  claret  in  a  box,  —  quitted,  I  say,  these  comfortable 
quarters,  and  plunged  into  the  heart  of  the  pitiless  snow 
storm,  in  quest  of  a  better  life. 

The  better  life  !  Possibly,  it  would  hardly  look  so, 
now ;  it  is  enough  if  it  looked  so  then.  The  greatest 
obstacle  to  being  heroic  is  the  doubt  whether  one  may 
n  >t  be  going  to  prove  one's  self  a  fool;  (he  truest  heroism 


1()  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANO E 

is,  to  resist  the  doubt ;  and  the  profoundest  wisdun,  to) 
know  when  it  ought  to  be  resisted,  and  when  to  be 
obeyed. 

Yet,  after  all,  let  us  acknowledge  it  wiser,  if  not  mere 
sagacious,  to  follow  out  one's  day-dream  to  its  natural  con 
summation,  although,  if- the  vision  have  been  worth  the 
having,  it  is  certain  never  to  be  consummated  otherwise 
than  by  a  failure.  And  what  of  that?  Its  airiest  frag 
ments,  impalpable  as  they  may  be,  will  possess  a  value 
that  lurks  not  in  the  most  ponderous  realities  of  any 
practicable  scheme.  They  are  not  the  rubbish  of  tho. 
mind.  Whatever  else  I  may  repent  of,  therefore,  let  it 
be  reckoned  neither  among  my  sins  nor  follies  that  1 
once  had  faith  and  force  enough  to  form  generous  hopes 
of  the  world's  destiny,  —  yes  !  —  and  to  do  what  in  me 
lay  for  their  accomplishment ;  even  to  the  extent  of 
quitting  a  warm  fireside,  flinging  away  a  freshly-lighted 
cigar,  and  travelling  far  beyond  the  strike  of  city  clocks, 
through  a  drifting  snow-storm. 

There  were  four  of  us  who  rode  together  through  the 
storm ;  and  Hollingsworth,  who  had  agreed  to  be  of  the 
number,  was  accidentally  delayed,  and  set  forth  at  a  later 
hour  alone.]  As  we  threaded  the  streets,  I  remember 
how  the  buntttngs  on  either  side  seemed  to  press  too 
closely  upon  us,  insomuch  that  our  mighty  hearts  found 
barely  room  enough  to  throb  between  them.  7  The  snow 
fall,  too,  looked  inexpressibly  dreary  (I  Tiad  almost 
ca  led  it  dingy),  coming  down  through  an  atmosphere 
of  city  smoke,  and  alighting  on  the  side-walk  only  to  be 
moulded  into  the  impress  of  somebody's  patched  boot  01 
ovei  'shoe.  Thus  the  track  of  an  old  conventionalism 
wrafc  visible  on  what  vi  is  freshest  from  the  sky.  Bur 


BLTTHEPALE.  17 

vhen  we  left  the  pavements,  and  our  n  uffled  hoof- 
uramps  beat  upon  a  desolate  extent  of  country  road,  and 
were  effaced  by  the  unfettered  blast  as  soon  as  stamped, 

then  there  was  better  air  to  breathe: Air  that  had 

not  been  breathed  once  and  again  !  air  that  had  not 
been  spoken  into  words  of  falsehoodjformality  and 
error,  like  all  the  air  of  the  dusk}'  city ! 

"  How  pleasant  it  is  ! "  remarked  IvWnile  the  snow- 
(lakes  flew  into  my  mouth  the  moment  it  was  opened. 
"  How  very  mild  and  balmy  is  this  country  air  ! " 

"  Ah,  Coverdale,  don't  laugh  at  what  little  enthusiasm 
you  have  left!  "  said  one  of  my  companions.  "  I  main 
tain  that  this  nitrous  atmosphere  is  really  exhilarating  , 
and,  at  any  rate,  we  can  never  call  ourselves  regen 
erated  men  till  a  February  north-easter  shall  be  as  grate 
ful  to  us  as  the  softest  breeze  of  June." 

So  we  all  of  us  took  courage,  riding  fleetly  and  mer 
rily  along,  by  stone-fences  that  were  half-buried  in  the 
wave-like  drifts ;  and  through  patches  of  woodland, 
where  the  tree-trunks  opposed  a  snow-encrusted  side 
towards  the  north-east;  and  within  ken  of  deserted 
villas,  with  no  foot-prints  in  their  avenues  ;  and  past 
scattered  dwellings,  whence  puffed  the  smoke  of  country 
tires,  strongly  impregnated  with  the  pungent  aroma  of 
burning  peat.  Sometimes,  encountering  a  tiaveller,  we 
shouted  a  friendly  greeting ;  and  he,  unmuffling  hi?  ears 
to  the  bluster  and  the  snow-spray,  and  listening  eagerly, 
appeared  to  think  our  courtesy  worth  less  than  the 
trouble  which  it  cost  him.  The  churl !  He  understood 
the  shrill  whistle  of  the  blast,  but  had  no  intelligence 
for  our  blithe  tones  of  brotherhood.  This  lack  of  faith 
in  our  cordial  sympathy,  on  the  traveller's  part,  was  or.« 


l6  THE    BLITHEDALt    ROMANCE. 

among  the  innumerable  tokens  how  difficult  a  task  \v« 
nad  in  hand,  for  the  reformation  of  the  world.  We  rode 
on,  however,  with  still  unflagging  spirits,  and  made  such 
good  companionship  with  the  tempest  that,  at  our  jour 
ney's  end,  we  professed  ourselves  almost  loth  to  bid  the 
rude  blusterer  good-by.  But,  to  own  the  truth,  I  was 
little  belter  than  an  icicle,  and  began  to  be  suspicious 
that  I  had  caught  a  fearful  cold. 

And  now  we  were  seated  by  the  brisk  fireside  of  the 
old  farm-house,  —  the  same  fire  that  glimmers  so  faintly 
among  my  reminiscences  at  the  beginning  of  this  chap 
ter.  There  we  sat,  with  the  snow  melting  out  of  OUT 
hair  and  beards,  and  our  faces  all  a-blaze,  what  with  the 
past  inclemency  and  present  warmth.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
right  good  fire  that  we  found  awaiting  us,  built  up  ol 
great,  rough  logs,  and  knotty  limbs,  and  splintered  frag . 
ments,  of  an  oak-tree,  such  as  farmers  are  wont  to  keep 
for  their  own  hearths,  —  since  these  crooked  and  unman 
ageable  boughs  could  never  be  measured  into  merchanta 
ble  cords  for  the  market.  A  family  of  the  old  'Pilgrim? 
might  have  swung  their  kettle  over  precisely  such  a  fire 
as  this,  only,  no  doubt,  a  bigger  one ;  and,  contrasting  it 
with  my  coal-grate,  I  felt  so  much  the  more  that  we  had 
transported  ourselves  a  world-wide  distance  from  the 
system  of  society  that  shackled  us  at  breakfast-time. 

Good,  comfortable  Mrs.  Foster  (the  wife  of  stout  Sila^ 
Foster,  who  was  to  manage  the  farm,  at  a  fair  stipend, 
and  be  our  tutor  in  the  art  of  husbandry)  bade  us  a 
hearty  welcome.  At  her  back  —  a  back  of  generous 
breadth  —  appeared  two  young  women,  smiling  mosl 
hospitably,  but  looking  rather  awkward  withal,  as  not 
knowing  what  was  to  be  their  position  in  our  new 


BLITHE  DALE.  9 

irrangement  of  the  world.  We  shook  hands  affection 
ately,  all  round,  and  congratulated  ourselves  that  the 
blessed  state  of  brotherhood  and  sisterhood,  at  which  we 
aimed,  might  fairly  be  dated  from  this  moment.  Our 
greetings  were  hardly  concluded,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Zenobia,  —  whom  I  had  never  before  seen,  important 
as  was  her  place  in  our  enterprise,  —  Zenobia  entered 
the  parlor. 

This  (as  the  reader,  if  at  all  acquainted  with  our  lit- 
?rary  biography,  need  scarcely  be  told)  was  not  her  reaV 
name.  She  had  assumed  it,  in  the  first  instance,  as  her 
magazine  signature ;  and,  as  it  accorded  well  with  some 
thing  imperial  which  her  friends  attributed  to  this  lady's 
figure  and  deportment,  they,  half-laughingly,  adopted  it 
in  their  familiar  intercourse  with  her.  She  took  the 
appellation  in  good  part,  and  even  encouraged  its  con 
stant  use  ;  which,  in  fact,  was  thus  far  appropriate,  thai 
our  Zenobia  —  however  humble  looked  her  new  philoso 
phy —  had  as  much  native  pride  as  iny  queen  would 
have  known  what  to  do  with 


III. 

A  KNOT  OF  DREAMERS. 

ZENOBIA  bade  us  welcome,  in  a  fine,  frank,  mellow 
voice,  and  gave  each  of  us  her  hand,  which  was  verv 
soft  and  warm.  She  had  something  appropriate,  I  recol- 
iect,  to  say  to  every  individual ;  and  what  she  said  to 
myself  was  this : 

"  I  have  long  wished  to  know  you,  Mr.  Coverdale,  and 
to  thank  you  for  your  beautiful  poetry,  some  of  which  1 
have  learned  by  heart ;  or,  rather,  it  has  stolen  into  my 
memory,  without '  my  exercising  any  choice  or  volition 
about  the  matter.  Of  course  —  permit  me  to  say  —  you 
do  not  think  of  relinquishing  an  occupation  in  which 
you  have  done  yourself  so  much  credit.  I  would  almost 
rather  give  you  up  as  an  associate,  than  that  the  world 
should  lose  one  of  its  true  poets ! " 

"Ah,  no;  there  will  not  be  the  slightest  danger  of 
that,  especially  after  this  inestimable  praise  from  Zeno- 
bia,"  said  I,  smiling,  and  blushing,  no  doubt,  with  excess 
of  pleasure.  "  I  hope,  on  the  contrary,  now  to  produce 
something  that  shall  really  deserve  to  be  called  poetry, 
—  true,  strong,  natural,  and  sweet,  as  is  the  life  which 
we  are  going  to  lead,  —  something  that  shall  have  the 
notes  of  wild  birds  twittering  through  it,  or  a  strain  like 
the  wind-anthems  in  the  woo  is,  as  the  case  may  be." 

"  Is  it  irksome  to  you  to  hear  your  own  verses  sung  ?  " 
asked  Zenobia,  with  a  gracious  smile.  "  If  so,  I  am 


ffNOT    OF    DREAMERS.  21 

sorry,  for  you  will  certainly  hear  me  Dinging  them, 
sometimes,  in  the  summer  evenings." 

"  Of  all  things,"  answered  I,  "  that  is  what  will  delight 
me  most." 

While  this  passed,  and  while  she  spoke  to  my  com 
panions,  I  was  taking  note  of  Zenobia's  aspect ;  and  h 
impressed  itself  on  me  so  distinctly,  that  I  can  new  sum 
mon  her  up,  like  a  ghost,  a  little  wanner  than  the  life 
but  otherwise  identical  with  it.  She  was  dressed  as 
simply  as  possible,  in  an  American  print  (I  think  the 
dry  goods  people  call  it  so),  but  with  a  silken  kerchief, 
between  which  and  her  gown  there  was  one  glimpse  of 
a  white  shoulder.  It  struck  me  as  a  great  piece  of  good 
fortune  that  there  should  be  just  that  glimpse.  Her  hair, 
which  was  dark,  glossy,  and  of  singular  abundance,  was 
put  up  rather  soberly  and  primly,  without  curls,  or  other 
ornament,  except  a  single  flower.  It  was  an  exotic,  of 
rare  beauty,  and  as  fresh  as  if  the  hot-house  gardener 
had  just  dipt  it  from  the  stem.  That  flower  has  struck 
deep  root  into  my  memory.  I  can  both  see  it  and  smell 
it,  at  this  moment.  So  brilliant,  so  rare,  so  costly,  as  it 
must  have  been,  and  yet  enduring  only  for  a  day,  it  was 
more  indicative  of  the  pride  and  pomp  which  had  a  lux 
uriant  growth  in  Zenobia's  character  than  if  a  great 
diamond  had  sparkled  among  her  hair. 

Her  hand,  though  very  soft,  was  larger  than  most  women 
would  like  to  have,  or  than  they  could  afford  to  have, 
though  not  a  whit  too  large  in  proport'on  with  the  spa 
cious  plan  of  Zenobia's  entire  development.  It  did  one 
good  to  see  a  fine  intellect  (as  hers  really  was,  although 
its  natural  tendency  lay  in  another  direction  than 
towards  literature)  so  fitly  cased.  She  w\s,  indeed  ao 


42  THE     BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

admirable  figure  of  a  woman,  just  on  the  hither  verg« 
of  her  richest  maturity,  with  a  combination  of  features 
which  it  is  safe  to  call  remarkably  beautiful,  even  if  some 
fastidious  persons  might  pronounce  them  a  little  defi 
cient  in  softness  and  delicacy.  But  we  find  enough  of 
those  attributes  everywhere.  Preferable  —  by  way  of 
variety,  at  least  —  was  Zenobia's  bloom,  health,  and 
vigor,  which  she  possessed  in  such  overflow  that  a  man 
alight  well  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  for  their  sake 
only.  In  her  quiet  moods,  she  seemed  rather  indolent ; 
but  when  really  in  earnest,  particularly  if  there  were  a 
spice  of  bitter  feeling,  she  grew  all  alive,  to  her  finger 
tips. 

"  I  am  the  first  comer,"  Zenobia  went  on  to  say,  while 
her  smile  beamed  warmth  upon  us  all ;  "  so  I  take  the 
part  of  hostess,  lor  to-day,  and  welcome  you  as  if  to  my 
own  fireside.  You  shall  be  my  guests,  too,  at  supper. 
To-morrow,  if  you  please,  we  will  be  brethren  and  sis 
ters,  and  begin  our  new  life  from  daybreak." 

"  Have  we  our  various  parts  assigned  ? "  asked  some 
one. 

"  O,  we  of  the  softer  sex,"  responded  Zenobia,  with 
her  mellow,  almost  broad  laugh,  —  most  delectable  to 
hear,  but  not  in  the  least  like  an  ordinary  woman's 
laugh, —  "  we  women  (there  are  four  of  us  here  already) 
will  take  the  domestic  and  indoor  part  of  the  business,  as 
a  matter  of  course.  To  bake,  to  boil,  to  roast,  to  fry,  to 
stew,  —  to  wash,  and  iron,  and  scrub,  and  sweep,  —  and 
at  our  idler  intervals,  to  repose  ourselves  on  knitting  ano 
Dewing,  —  these,  I  suppose,  must  be  feminine  occupa 
tions,  for  the  present.  By  and  by,  perhaps,  when  ou. 
ml'.vidual  adaptations  begin  to  develop  themselves  il 


A  KNOT   OF    DREAMERS.  23 

may  be  that  some  of  us  who  wear  the  petticoat  will  go 
a-field,  and  leave  the  weaker  brethren  to  take  our  place  i 
n  the  idtch.3n." 

"-What  a  pity,  I  remarked,  "that  the  kitchen,  and 
the  house-work  generally,  cannot  be  left  out  of  our  sys 
tem  altogether !  Fit  is  odd  enough  that  the  kind  of 
labor  which  falls  to  the  lot  of  women  is  just  that  which 
chiefly  distinguishes  artificial  life  —  the  life  of  degene 
rated  mortals  —  fiom  the  life  of  Paradise.  Eve  had  no 
dinner-pot,  and  no  clothes  to  mend,  and  no  washing- 
day." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Zenobia,  with  mirth  gleaming  out 
of  her  eyes,  "  we  shall  find  some  difficulty  in  adopting 
the  Paradisiacal  system  for  at  least  a  month  to  come. 
Look  at  that  snow-drift  sweeping  past  the  window! 
Are  there  any  figs  ripe,  do  you  think  ?  Have  the  pine 
apples  been  gathered,  to-day  ?  Would  you  like  a  bread 
fruit,  or  a  cocoa-nut  ?  Shall  I  run  out  and  pluck  you 
some  roses?  No,  no,  Mr.  Coverdale ;  the  only  flower 
hereabouts  is  the  one  in  my  hair,  which  I  got  out  of  a 
green-house  this  morning.  As  for  the  garb  of  Eden," 
added  she,  shivering  playfully,  "  I  shall  not  assume  it 
till  after  May-day !  " 

Assuredly,  Zenobia  could  not  have  intended  it ;  —  the 
fault  mast  have  been  entirely  in  my  imagination.  But 
these  last  words,  together  with  something  in  her  man 
ner,  irresistibly  brought  up  a  picture  of  that  fine,  per 
fectly  developed  figure,  in  Eve's  earliest  garment,  Her 
free,  careless,  generous  modes  of  expression,  often  had 
this  effect,  of  creating  images,  which,  though  pure,  are 
hardly  felt  to  be  quite  decorous  when  born  of  a  thought 
that  *  asses  between  man  and  woman  I  mouted  it,  a< 


"4  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

that  ttme^  to  Zenobia's  noble  courage,  conscious  of  no 
harm,  ana*  scorning  the  petty  restraints  which  take  the 
life  and  color  out  of  other  women's  conversation.  There 
was  another  peculiarity  about  her.  We  seldom  meek 
with  women,  now-a-days,  and  in  this  country,  who 
impress  us  as  being  women  at  all ;  —  their  sex  fades 
away,  and  goes  for  nothing,  in  ordinary  intercourse. 
Not  so  with  Zenobia.  One  felt  an  influence  breathing 
out  of  her  such  as  we  might  suppose  to  come  from  Eve, 
when  she  was  just  made,  and  her  Creator  brought  her 
to  Adam,  saying,  "  Behold  !  here  is  a  woman  !  "  Not 
that  I  would  convey  the  idea  of  especial  gentleness, 
grace,  modesty  and  shyness,  but  of  a  certain  warm  and 
rich  characteristic,  which  seems,  for  the  most  part,  to 
have  been  refined  away  out  of  the  feminine  system. 

"  And  now,"  continued  Zenobia,  "  I  must  go  and  help 
get  supper.  Do  you  think  you  can  be  content,  instead 
of  figs,  pine-apples,  and  all  the  other  delicacies  of  Adam's 
supper-table,  with  tea  nd  toast,  and  a  certain  modest 
supply  of  ham  and  tongue,  which,  with  the  instinct  of  a 
housewife,  I  brought  hither  in  a  basket?  And  there 
shall  be  bread  and  milk,  too,  if  the  innocence  of  youi 
feiste  demands  it," 

The  whole  sisterhood  now  went  about  their  domestic 
avocations,  utterly  declining  our  offers  to  assist,  further 
than  by  cringing  wood,  for  the  kitchen-fire,  from  a  hug« 
pile  m  the  back  yard.  After  heaping  up  more  than  a 
sufficient  quantity,  we  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  drew, 
ovir  chairs  close  to  the  hearth,  and  began  to  talk  over 
our  prospects.  Soon,  with  a  tremendous  stamping  in 
the  entiy,  appeared  Silas  Foster,  lank,  stalwart,  uncouth, 
and  gridy-beardetl.  He  ca-ne  from  foddering  the  cattle 


A    KNOT    OF    CREAMERS.  ZO 

.iv  tiie  oarn,  and  from  the  field,  where  he  had  leen 
ploughing,  until  the  depth  of  the  snow  rendered  it  im 
possible  to  draw  a  furrow.  He  greeted  us  in  pretty 
much  the  same  tone  as  if  he  were  speaking  to  his  oxen, 
took  a  quid  from  his  iron  tobacco-box,  pulled  off  his  wet 
cow-hide  boots,  and  sat  down  before  the  fire  in  his 
stocking-feet.  The  steam  arose  from  his  soaked  gar 
ments,  so  that  the  stout  yeoman  looked  vaporous  and 
spectre -like. 

"  Well,  folks,"  remarked  Silas,  "  you  '11  be  wishing 
yourselves  back  to  town  again,  if  this  weather  holds." 

And,  true  enough,  there  was  a  look  of  gloom,  as  the 
twilight  fell  silently  and  sadly  out  of  the  sky,  its  gray 
or  sable  flakes  intermingling  themselves  with  the  fast 
descending  snow.  The  storm,  in  its  evening  aspect, 
was  decidedly  dreary.  It  seemed  to  have  arisen  for  our 
especial  behoof,  —  a  symbol  of  the  cold,  desolate,  dis 
trustful  phantoms  that  invariably  haunt  the  mind,  on  the 
eve  of  adventurous  enterprises,  to  warn  us  back  within 
the  boundaries  of  ordinary  life. 

But  our  courage  did  not  quail.  We  would  not  allow 
ourselves  to  be  depressed  by  the  snow-drift  trailing  past 
the  window,  any  more  than  if  it  had  been  the  sigh  of  a 
summer  wind  among  rustling  boughs.  There  have  been 
few  brighter  seasons  for  us  than  that.  If  ever  men 
might  lawfully  dream  awake,  and  give  utterance  to  their 
wildest  visions  without  dread  of  laughter  or  scorn  on 
me  part  of  the  audience,  — \^e~s,  and  speak  of  earthly 
happiness,  for  themselves  and  mankind,  as  an  object  tc 
be  hopefully  striven  for,  and  probably  attained,  —  we 
who  made  t'.iat  little  semi-circle  round  the  blazing  fire, 
were  those  very  men.  We  had  left  the  rut^y  irorj 


2ti  THE    BL1THEDALE    ROMANCE. 

frame-work  of  society  behind  us  ;  we  had  broken  thiough 
many  hindran  :es  that  are  powerful  enough  to  keep  most 
people  on  the  weary  tread-mill  of  the  established  system 
even  while  they  feel  its  irksomeness  almost  as  intolera 
ble  as  we  did.  We  had  stept  down  from  the  pulpit ;  \ve 
had  flung  aside  the  pen ;  we  had  shut  up  the  ledger ;  we 
had  thrown  off  that  sweet,  bewitching,  enervating  indo 
lence,  which  is  better,  after  all,  than  most  of  the  enjoy 
ments  within  mortal  grasp.  It  was  our  purpose  —  a 
generous  one,  certainly,  and  absurd,  no  doubt,  in  full 
proportion  with  its  generosity — to  give  up  whatever  we 
had  heretofore  attained,  for  the  sake  of  showing  mankind 
the  example  of  a  life  governed  by  other  than  the  false 
and  cruel  principles  on  which  human  society  has  all 
along  been  based. 

And,  first  of  all,  we  had  divorce'd  ourselves  from 
pride,  and  were  striving  to  supply  its  place  with  familiar 
love.  We  meant  to  lessen  the  laboring  man's  great 
burthen  of  toil,  by  performing  our  due  share  of  it  at  the 
cost  of  our  own  thews  and  sinews.  We  sought  our 
profit  by  mutual  aid,  instead  of  wresting  it  by  the 
strong  hand  from  an  enemy,  or  filching  it  craftily 
from  those  less  shrewd  than  ourselves  (if,  indeed,  there 
were  any  such  in  New  England),  or  winning  it  by  self 
ish  competition  with  a  neighbor ;  in  one  or  another  of 
which  fashions  every  son  of  woman  both  perpetrate^  and 
suffers  his  share  of  the  common  evil,  whether  he  chooses 
it  or  no.  And,  as  the  basis  of  )ur  institution,  we  pur 
posed  to  offer  up  the  earnes^  toil  of  our  bodies,  as  a 
prayer  no  less  than  an  effort  for  the  advancement  of  ouj 
race. 

Therefore,  if  we  built  splendid  castles  (phnlanmenes 


A    KNOT   OF    DREAMERS.  1 

perhaps  they  might  be  more  fitly  called),  and  pictured 
beautiful  scenes,  among  the  fervid  coals  of  the  hearth 
around  which  wo  were  clustering,  and  if  all  went  to  rack 
with  the  crumbling  embers,  and  have  never  since  arisen 
out  of  the  ashes,  let  us  take  to  ourselves  no  shame.  In 
my  own  behalf,  1  rejoice  that  I  could  once  think  belter 
of  the  woiid's  improvability  than  it  deserved.  It  is  i 
mistake  into  which  men  seldom  fall  twice  in  a  lifetime  ; 
or,  if  so,  the  rarer  and  higher  is  the  nature  that  can  thufo 
magnanimously  persist  in  error. 

Stout  Silas  Foster  mingled  little  in  our  conversation ; 
hut  when  he  did  speak,  it  was  very  much  to  some 
practical  purpose.  For  instance  : 

"  Which  man  among  you,"  quoth  he,  "  is  the  best 
judge  of  swine  ?  Some  of  us  must  go  to  the  next 
Brighton  fair,  and  buy  half  a  dozen  pigs." 

Pigs  !  Good  heavens  !  had  we  come  out  from  among 
the  swinish  multitude  for  this  ?  And,  again,  in  refer 
ence  to  some  discussion  about  raising  early  vegetables 
for  the  market : 

"  We  shall  never  make  any  hand  at  market-garden 
ing,"  said  Silas  Foster,  "  unless  the  women  folks  will 
undertake  to  do  all  the  weeding.  We  have  n't  team 
enough  for  that  and  the  regular  farm-work,  reckoning 
three  o(  you  city  folks  as  worth  one  common  field-hand, 
No,  no ;  1  tell  you,  we  should  have  to  get  up  a  little 
too  early  in  the  morning,  to  :ompete  with  the  market- 
gardeners  round  Boston." 

It  struck  me  as  rather  odd,  that  one  of  the  first  ques 
tions  raised,  after  our  separation  from  the  greedy,  strug- 
gl:ng,  self-seeking  world,  should  relate  to  the  possibility 
jf  getting  th}  advantage  over  the  outside  barbarians  \v 


'^S  1HE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE 

their  own  field  of  labor.  But,  to  own  the  truth,  [  very 
soon  became  sensible  that,  as  regarded  society  at  large, 
we  stood  in  a  position  of  new  hostility,  rather  than  new 
brotherhood.  Nor  could  this  fail  to  be  the  case,  in  &Dme 
degree,  until  the  bigger  and  better  half  of  society  should 
range  itself  on  our  side.  Constituting  so  pitiful  a 
minority  as  now,  we  were  inevitably  estranged  from  ths 
rest  of  mankind  in  pretty  fair  proportion  with  the  strict 
ness  of  our  mutual  bond  among  ourselves. 

This  dawning  idea,  however,  was  driven  back  into 
my  inner  consciousness  by  the  entrance  of  Zenobia. 
She  came  with  the  welcome  intelligence  that  supper 
was  on  the  table.  Looking  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and 
perceiving  that  her  one  magnificent  flower  had  grown 
rather  languid  (probably  by  being  exposed  to  the  fer 
vency  of  the  kitchen  fire),  she  flung  it  on  the  floor,  as 
unconcernedly  as  a  village  girl  would  throw  away  a 
faded  violet.  The  action  seemed  proper  to  her  charac 
ter,  although,  methought,  it  would  still  more  have  befitted 
the  bounteous  nature  of  this  beautiful  woman  to  scatter 
fresh  flowers  from  her  hand,  and  to  revive  faded  ones  by 
her  touch.  Nevertheless,  it  was  a  singular  but  irresisti 
ble  effect;  the  presence  of  Zenobia  caused  our  heroic 
enterprise  to  show  like  an  illusion,  a  masquerade,  a 
pastoral,  a  counterfeit  Arcadia,  in  which  we  grown-up 
men  and  women  were  making  a  play-day  of  the  years 
that  were  given  us  to  live  in.  I  tried  to  analyze  this 
impression,  but  not  with  much  success. 

"  It  really  vexes  me,"  observed  Zenobia,  as  we  left  thu 
room,  • ;  that  Mr.  Hollingsworth  should  be  such  a  laggard 
I  should  not  have  thought  him  at  all  the  sort  of  person 
to  be  turned  back  by  a  puff  of  contrary  wind,  or  a  few 
snow-flakes  <lriftinir  into  his  face-" 


A    KNOT    OF    DREAMERS.  29 

'Do  _you  know  Hollingsworth  personally?"  [  inquired. 

"No;  on.y  as  an  auditor  —  auditress,  I  mean  —  of 
tome  of  his  lectures,"  said  she.  "  What  a  voice  he 
has !  and  what  a  man  he  is !  Yet  not  so  much  an 
intellectual  man,  I  should  .say,  as  a  great  heart;  a*. 
l^ast,  he  moved  me  more  deeply  than  I  think  myself 
capable  of  being  moved,  except  by  the  stioke  of  a  true, 
strong  heart  against  my  own.  It  is  a  sad  pity  that  he 
should  have  devoted  his  glorious  powers  to  such  a 
grimy,  unbeautiful  and  positively  hopeless  object  as 
this  reformation  of  criminals,  about  which  he  makes 
himself  and  his  wretchedly  small  audiences  so  very 
miserable.  To  tell  you  a  secret,  I  never  could  tolerate 
a  philanthropist  before.  Could  you?" 

"  By  no  means,"  I  answered ;  "neithei  can  I  now." 

"  They  are,  indeed,  an  odiously  disagreeable  set  of 
mortals,"  continued  Zenobia.  "  I  should  like  Mr.  Hol 
lingsworth  a  great  deal  better,  if  the  philanthropy  had 
been  left  out.  At  all  events,  as  a  mere  matter  of  taste, 
I  wish  he  would  let  the  bad  people  alone,  and  try-  to 
benefit  those  who  are  not  already  past  his  help.  Do 
you  suppose  he  will  be  content  to  spend  his  life,  or  even 
a  few  months  of  it,  among  tolerably  virtuous  and  com 
fortable  individuals,  like  ourselves?" 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  doubt  it,"  said  I.  "  If  we  wish  to 
Keep  him  with  us,  we  must  systematically  commit,  at 
least,  one  crime  apiece  !  Mere  peccadilloes  will  not  sat 
isfy  him." 

Zenobia  turned,  sidelong,  a  strange  kind  of  n  glance 
upon  me ;  but,  before  I  cc  'ild  make  out  what  it  meant, 
we  had  entered  the  kitchen,  where,  in  accordance  witn 
the  rustic  r.implicity  of  our  new  life,  the  supper-tab!*3 
\vas  spread. 


IV. 

THE  SUPPEK^TABLE. 

THE  pleasant  fire-light!  I  must  still  kee;  harping 
on  it. 

The  kitchen-hearth  had  an  old-fashioned  breadth, 
depth  and  spaciousness,  far  within  which  lay  what 
seemed  the  butt  of  a  good-sized  oak-tree,  with  the  moist 
ure  bubbling  merrily  out  of  both  ends.  It  was  now 
half  an  hour  beyond  dusk.  The  blaze  from  an  armful 
of  substantial  sticks,  rendered  more  combustible  by 
brush -wood  and  pine,  flickered  powerfully  on  the  smoke- 
blackened  walls,  and.  so  cheered  our  spirits  that  we 
cared  not  what  inclemency  might  rage  and  roar  on  the 
other  side  of  our  illuminated  windows.  A  yet  sultrier 
warmth  was  bestowed  by  a  goodly  quantity  of  pea.t, 
which  was  crumbling  to  white  ashes  among  the  burning 
brands,  and  incensed  the  kitchen  with  its  not  ungrateful 
fragrance.  The  exuberance  of  this  household  fire 
would  alone  have  sufficed  to  bespeak  us  no  true  farm 
ers ;  fcr  the  New  England  yeoman,  if  he  have  the  mis- 
rortune  to  dwell  within  practicable  distance  of  a  wood 
market,  is  as  niggardly  of  each  stick  as  if  it  were  a  bai 
of  California  gold. 

But  it  was  fortunate  for  us,  on  that  wintry  eve  ot  om 
untried  life,  to  enjoy  the  warm  and  radiant  luxury  of  a 
somewhat  too  abundant  fire.  If  it  served  no  other  pur 
pose  it  made  the  men  look  so  full  of  youth,  warm  blood 


THE    SUPPER-TABLE.  IV 

and  hope, and  the  women — such  of  them, at  least,  as  were 
anywise  convertible  by  its  magic  —  so  very  beautiful,  thai 
I  would  cheerfully  have  spent  my  last  dollar  to  prolong 
the  blize.  As  for  Zenobia,  there  was  a  glow  in  her 
cheeks  that  made  me  think  of  Pandora,  fresh  from  Vul 
can's  workshop,  and  full  of  the  celestial  warmth  by  'lint 
of  which  he  had  tempered  ind  moulded  hei. 

"  Take  your  places,  my  dear  friends  all,"  cried  she 
'  seat  yourselves  without  ceremony,  and  you  shall  be 
made  happy  with  such  tea  as  not  many  of  the  world's 
ivorking-people,  except  yourselves,  will  find  in  their  cups 
to-night.  After  this  one  supper,  you  may  drink  butter 
milk,  if  you  please.  To-night  we  will  quaff  this  nectar, 
which,  I  assure  you,  could  not  be  bought  with  gold." 

We  all  sat  down,  - —  grisly  Silas  Foster,  his  rotund 
helpmate,  and  the  two  bouncing  handmaidens,  included, 
—  and  looked  at  one  another  in  a  friendly  but  rather 
awkward  way.  It  was  the  first  practical  trial  of  our 
theories  of  equal  brotherhood  and  sisterhood ;  and  we 
people  of  superior  cultivation  and  refinement  (for  as  such 
I  presume,  we  unhesitatingly  reckoned  ourselves)  felt  as 
'f  something  were  already  accomplished  towards  the  mil- 
ennium  of  love.  The  truth  is,  however,  that  the  labor 
ing-oar  was  with  our  unpolished  companions  ;  it  being 
far  easier  to  condescend  than  to  accept  of  condescension. 
Neither  did  1  refrain  from  questioning,  in  secret, 
whether  some  of  us  —  and  Zenobia  among  the  rest  — 
would  so  quietly  have  taken  ^our  places  amcng  these 
good  people,  save  for  the  cherished  consciousness  that  it 
was  not  by  necessity, but  choice.  Though  we  saw  fit  to 
drink  our  tea  out  of  earthen  cups  to-night,  and  in 
earthen  company,  it  was  at  our  own  option  to  use  pic 


32  THE     BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

tured  poi^elair.  and  handle  silver  forks  again  to-morrow 
This  same  salvo,  as  to  the  power  of  regaining  our  forme? 
position,  contributed  much,  I  fear,  to  the  equanimity 
with  which  we  subsequently  bore  many  of  the  hard 
ships  and  humiliations  of  a  life  of  toil.  If  ever  I  have 
deserved  (which  has  not  often  been  the  case,  and,  I  think, 
never),  but  if  ever  I  did  deserve  to  be  soundly  cuffed  by 
a  fellow-mortal,  for  secretly  putting  weight  upon  some 
imaginary  social  advantage,  it  must  have  been  while  I 
was  striving  to  prove  myself  ostentatiously  his  equal, 
and  no  more.  It  was  while  I  sat  beside  him  on  his  cob- 
bler'is  bench,  or  clinked  my  hoe  against  his  own  in  the 
corn-field,  or  broke  the  same  crust  of  bread,  my  earth- 
grimed  hand  to  his,  at  our  noon-tide  lunch.  The 
poor,  proud  man  shouil  look  at  both  sides  of  sympathy 
like  this. 

The  silence  which  followed  upon  our  sitting  down  to 
table  giew  rather  oppressive;  indeed,  it  was  hardly 
broken  by  a  word,  during  the  first  round  of  Zenobia's 
fragrant  tea. 

"  I  hope,"  Laid  1,  at  last,  "  that  our  blazing  windows 
will  be  visible  a  great  way  off.  There  is  nothing  so 
pleasant  and  encouraging  to  a  solitary  traveller,  on  a 
stormy  night,  as  a  flood  of  fire-light  seen  amid  the 
gloom.  These  ruddy  window-panes  cannot  fail  tc  cheei 
the  hearts  of  all  that  look  at  them.  Are  they  not  warm 
and  bright  with  the  beacon-fire  which  we  have  kindled 
for  humanity?'1 

"  The  blaze  of  that*  brush-wood  will  only  last  a 
minute  or  two  longer,"  observed  Silas  Foster;  but 
whether  he  meant  to  insinuate  that  our  moral  illurnin* 
tion  would  have  as  briel'a  term,  I  cannot  say. 


THE    SUPPER-TABLE.  C-J 

44  Mf'intime,  said  Zenobia,  "  it  may  seive  to  gjide 
some  wayfarer  to  a  shelter." 

And,  just  as  she  said'  this,  there  came  a  knock  at  tho 
house-door. 

"  There  is  one  of  the  world's  wayfarers,"  said  I. 

"Ay,  ay,  just  so!"  quoth  Silas  Foster.  "Our  nre- 
nght  will  draw  stragglers,  just  as  a  candle  draws  dor- 
jugs,  on  a  summer  night." 

Whether  to  enjoy  a  dramatic  suspense,  or  that  we 
were  selfishly  contrasting  our  own  comfort  with  the 
chill  and  dreary  situation  of  the  unknown  person  at  the 
threshold,  or  that  some  of  us  city-folk  felt  a  little 
startled  at  the  knock  which  came  so  unseasonably, 
through  night  and  storm,  to  the  door  of  the  lonely  farm 
house, —  so  it  happened,  that  nobody,  for  an  instant  or 
two,  arose  to  answer  the  summons.  Pretty  soon,  there 
:ame  another  knock.  The  first  had  been  moderately 
loud;  the  second  was  smitten  so  forcibly  that  the 
knuckles  of  the  applicant  must  have  left  their  mark  in 
the  door-panel. 

"  He  knocks  as  if  he  had  a  right  to  come  in,"  said 
Zenobia,  laughing.  "And  what  are  we  thinking  of?  It 
must  be  Mr.  Hollingsworth  ! " 

Hereupon,  I  went  to  the  door,  unbolted,  and  flung  it 
wide  open.  There,  sure  enough,  stood  Hollingsworth, 
his  shaggy  great-coat  all  covered  with  snow,  so  that  he 
looked  quite  as  much  like  a  polar  bear  as  a  modern 
philanthropist. 

"  Sluggish  hospitality  this ! "  said  he,  in  those  deep 
tones  of  his,  which  seemed  to  come  out  of  a  chest  as 
capacious  a*  a  barrel.  "  It  would  have  served  you 
right  if  I  had  lain  down  and  spent  the  night  )n  the  door- 


34  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE, 

step,  just  for  the  sake  of  putting  you  to  shame      Bin 
here  is  a  guest  who  will  need  a  -wanner  and  softer  bed. 

And,  stepping  back  to  the  wagon  in  which  he  had  jour» 
neyed  hither,  Hollingsworth  received  into  his  arms  and 
deposited  an  the  door-step  a  figure  enveloped  in  a  cloak, 
it  was  evidently  a  woman;  or,  rather, — judging  from 
the  ease  with  which  he  lifted  her,  and  the  little  space 
which  she  seemed  to  fill  in  his  arms,  —  a  slim  and 
unsubstantial  girl.  As  she  showed  some  hesitation 
about  entering  the  door,  Hollingsworth,  with  his  usual 
directness  arid  lack  of  ceremony,  urged  her  forward,  not 
merely  within  the  entry,  but  into  the  warm  and  stronglv 
lighted  kitchen. 

"  Who  is  this  ? "  whispered  1,  remaining  behind  »vith 
him  while  he  was  taking  off  his  great-coat. 

"  Who  ?  Really,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Hollings 
worth,  looking  at  me  with  some  surprise.  "It  is  a  young 
person  who  belongs  here,  however ;  and,  no  doubt,  she 
has  been  expected.  Zenobia,  or  some  of  the  women 
folks,  can  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  I,  glancing  towards  the  new  comer 
and  the  other  occupants  of  the  kitchen.  "  Nobody 
seems  to  welcome  her.  I  should  hardly  judge  that  she 
was  an  expected  guest." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Hollingsworth,  quietly.  "  We  'ii 
make  it  right." 

The  stranger,  or  whatever  she  were,  remained  stand 
ing  precisely  on  tnat  spot  of  tne  Kitcnen  floor  to  which 
Hollings worth's  kindly  hand  had  impelled  her.  The 
cloak  falling  partly  off,  she  was  seen  to  be  a  very  young 
woman,  dressed  in  &  poor  but  decent  gown,  made  high 
in  the  n^k,  aid  without  any  regard  to  fashion  or  sman 


THE    SUPPER-TABLE.  35 

ness.  Her  Lrown  hair  fell  down  from  beneath  a  hood, 
not  in  carls,  but  witK  only  a  slight  wave;  her  face  was 
of  a  \van,  almost  sickly  hue,  betokening  habitual  seclu 
sion  from  the  sun  and  free  atmosphere,  like  a  flower- 
shrub  that  had  done  its  best  to  blossom  in  too  scanty 
light.  To  complete  the  pitiableness  of -her  aspect,  she 
shivered,  either  with  cold,  or  fear,  or  nervous  excitement, 
so  that  you  might  have  beheld  her  shadow  vibrating  on 
the  fire-lighted  wall.  In  short,  there  has  seldom  been 
.seen  so  depressed  and  sad  a  figure  as  this  young  girl's  ; 
and  it. was  hardly  possible  to  help  being  angry  with  her, 
from  mere  despair  of  doing  anything  for  her  comfort. 
The  fantasy  occurred  to  me  that  she  was  some  desolate 
kind  of  a  creature,  doomed  to  wander  about  in  snow 
storms  ;  and  that,  though  the  ruddiness  of  our  window- 
panes  had  tempted  her  into  a  human  dwelling,  she 
.vould  not  remain  long  enough  to  melt  the  icicles  out  of 
ner  hair. 

Another  conjecture  likewise  came  into  my  mind. 
Recollecting  Hollingsworth's  sphere  of  philanthropic 
action,  I  deemed  it  possible  that  he  might  have  brought 
one  of  his  guilty  patients,  to  be  wrought  upon,  and 
^stored  to  spiritual  health,  by  the  pure  influences  which 
our  mode  of  life  would  create. 

Ai  yet,  the  girl  had  not  stirred.  She  stood  near  the 
door,  fixing  a  pair  of  large,  brown,  melancholy  eyes  upon 
Zenobia,  —  only  upon  Zenobia  I  —  she  evidently  saw 
nothing  else  in  the  room,  save  that  bright,  fair,  rosy, 
beautiful  woman.  It  was  the  strangest  look  I  ever  wit 
nessed  ;  long  a  mystery  to  me,  and  forever  a  memory. 
Once  she  seemed  about  to  move  forwari  and  greet  her 
-1  know  not  with  what  warmth,  or  with  what  words 


16  THE    BLITHEDALE    KOMAJSCE 

—  bat,  Tnally,  instead  of  doing  so,  she  drooped  down 
upon  her  knees,  clasped  her  hands,  and  gazed  piteously 
into  Zeriobia's  face.  Meeting  no  kindly  reception,  hei 
head  fell  on  her  bosom. 

I  never  thoroughly  forgave  Zenobia  for  her  conduct 
on  this  occasion.  But  women  are  always  more  cautious 
in  their  casual  hospitalities  than  men. 

"  What  does  the  girl  mean  ? "  cried  she,  in  rather  a 
sharp  tone.  "  Is  she  crazy  ?  Has  she  no  tongue  ? " 

And  here  Hollingsworth  stepped  forward. 

;'  No  wonder  if  the  poor  child's  tongue  is  frozen  in  he? 
mouth,'1  said  he,  —  and  I  think  he  positively  frowned  at 
Zenobia.  "  The  very  heart  will  be  frozen  in  her  bosom, 
unless  you  women  can  warm  it,  among  you,  with  the 
warmth  that  ought  to  be  in  your  own  !  " 

Hollingsworth's  appearance  was  very  striking  at  this 
moment.  He  was  then  about  thirty  years  old,  but  looked 
several  years  older,  with  his  great  shaggy  head,  his 
heavy  brow,  his  dark  complexion,  his  abundant  beard, 
and  the  rude  strength  with  which  his  features  seemed  to 
have  been  hammered  out  of  iron,  rather  than  chiselled 
or  moulded  from  any  finer  or  softer  material.  His 
figure  was  not  tall,  but  massive  and  brawny,  and  well 
oefitting  his  original  occupation,  which  —  as  the  reader 
probably  knows  —  was  that  of  a  blacksmith.  As  for 
extern?!  polish,  or  mere  courtesy  of  manner,  he  never 
possessed  more  than  a  tolerably  educated  bear  ;  although 
in  his  gentler  moods,  there  was  a  tenderness  in  his  voico. 
eyes,  mouth,  in  his  gesture,  and  in  every  indescribable 
manifestation,  which  few  men  could  resist,  and  nc 
woman.  But  he  now  looked  stern  and  reproachful1  ;  an*. 
it  was  with  that  inauspicious  meaning  in  h  .  glance 


THE    SUPPER-TABLE.  • 

mat  HolLngsworth.  first  met  Zenobio's  eyes.,  and  began 
his  influence  upon  her  life. 

To  my  ^surprise,  Zenobia  —  of  whose  haughty  spirit  1 
had  been  told  so  many  examples  —  absolutely  changed 
rolor,  arid  seemed  mortified  and  confused. 

"  You  do  not  quite  do  me  justice,  Mr.  Hollingsworth," 
said  she,  almost  humbly.  "  I  am  willing  to  be  kind  to 
the  poor  girl.  Is  she  a  protegee  of  yours  ?  What  can  1 
do  for  her  ?  " 

"  Have  you  anything  to  ask  of  this  lady  ?"  said  Hol 
lingsworth,  kindly,  to  the  girl.  "  I  remember  you 
mentioned  her  name  before  we  left  town." 

"  Only  that  she  will  shelter  me,"  replied  the  gin, 
tremulously.  "  Only  that  she  will  let  me  be  always 
neur  he  \" 

"  Weil,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Zenobia,  recovering  her 
self,  and  laughing,  "  this  is  an  adventure,  and  well 
worthy  to  be  the  first  incident  in  our  life  of  love  and 
free-heartedness !  But  I  accept  it,  for  the  present,  with 
out  further  question,  —  only,"  added  she,  "it  wcnld  be  a 
convenience  if  we  knew  your  name." 

"  Priscilla,"  said  the  girl ;  and  it  appeared  to  me  that 
she  hesitated  whether  to  add  anything  more, and  decided 
in  the  negative.  "  Pray  do  not  ask  me  my  other  name, 
—  at  least,  not  yet,  —  if  you  will  be  so  kind  to  a  forlorn 
creature." 

Priscilla!  —  Priscilla!  1  repeated  the  name  to  myself, 
three  or  four  times ;  and,  in  that  little  space,  thk  quaint 
and  prim  cognomen  had  so  amalgamated  itself  with  my 
idea  of  the  girl,  that  it  seemed  as  if  no  other  name  could 
have  adhered  to  her  for  a  moment.  Heretofore,  the  poor 
thing  had  not  shed  any  tears;  but  now  that  she  f<mivl 


SS  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

herself, received,  and  at  least  temporarily  established,  the 
big  drops  began  to  ooze  out  from  beneath  her  eyelids,  a! 
if  she  were  full  of  them.  Perhaps  it  showed  the  iron 
substance  of  my  heart,  that  I  could  not  help  smiling  a/ 
this  odd  scene  of  unknown  and  unaccountable  calamity 
Into  which  our  cheerful  party  had  been  entrapped,  wit^ 
out  the  liberty  of  choosing  whether  to  sympathize  or  no 
Hollingsworth's  behavior  was  certainly  a  great  dea, 
'more  creditable  than  mine. 

"  Let  us  not  pry  further  into  her  secrets,"  he  said  t( 
Zenobia  and  the  rest  of  us,  apart,  —  and  his  dark,  shaggy 
face  looked  really  beautiful  with  its  expression  of 
thoughtful  benevolence.  "  Let  us  conclude  that  Provi 
dence  has  sent  her  to  us,  as  the  first  fruits  of  the  world, 
which  we  have  undertaken  to  make  happier  than  we  find 
it.  Let  us  warm  her  poor,  shivering  body  with  this 
good  fire,  and  her  poor,  shivering  heart  with  our  best 
kindness.  Let  us  feed  her,  and  make  her  one  of  us. 
As  we  do  by  this  friendless  girl,  so  shall  we  prosper. 
And,  in  good  time,  whatever  is  desirable  for  us  to  know 
will  be  melted  out  of  her,  as  inevitably  as  those  tears 
which  we  see  now." 

"  At  least,"  remarked  I,  "you  may  tell  us  how  anJ 
where  you  met  with  her." 

"  An  old  man  brought  her  to  my  lodging*.,"  answered 
Hollingsworth,  "  and  begged  me  to  convey  her  to  Blithe- 
dale,  where  —  so  I  understood  him  —  she  had  friends 
and  this  is  positively  a  A  I  know  about  the  matter." 

Grim  Silas  Foster,  all  this  while,  had  been  b'isy  at  the 
supper-table,  pouring  out  his  own  tea,  and  gulping  it 
down  with  no  more  sense  of  its  exquisiteness  than  if  i4 
were  a  decoction  of  catrip;  helping  himself  to  pieces  o* 


THE    SUPPER-TABL£.  39 

ilipt  toast  on  i\e  fla'  of  his  knife-blade,  and  dropping 
half  of  it  oa  the  lable-cloth  ;  using  the  same  serviceable 
implement  to  cut  slice  after  slice  of  ham;  perpetrating 
terrible  enormities  with  the  butter -plate ;  and,  in  all 
•»ther  respects,  behaving  less  like  a  civilized  Christian 
than  the  worst  kind  of  an  ogre.  Being  by  this  time 
fully  gorged,  he  crowned  his  amiable  exploits  with  a 
draught  from  the  water  pitcher,  and  then  favored  113 
with  his  opinion  about  the  business  in  hand.  And,  cer 
tainly,  though  they  proceeded  out  of  an  unwiped  mouth, 
his  expressions  did  him  honor. 

"  Give  the  girl  a  hot  cup  of  tea,  and  a  thick  slice  of 
this  first-rate  bacon,"  said  Silas,  like  a  sensible  man  as 
be  was.  "  That 's  what  she  wants.  Let  her  stay  with 
us  as  long  as  she  likes,  and  help  in  the  kitchen,  and 
take  the  cow-breath  at  milking-time ;  and,  in  a  week  or 
two,  she  '11  begin  to  look  like  a  creature  of  this  woild." 

So  we  sat  down  again  to  supper,  and  Priscilla  along 
with  «« 


V. 

UNTIL  BED-TIME. 

SILAS  FOSTER,  by  the  time  we  concluded  o\\i  meal 
hid  stript  off  his  coat,  and  planted  himself  on  a  low  chaii 
oy  the  kitchen  fire,  with  a  lapstone,  a  hammer,  a  piece 
of  sole-leather,  and  some  waxed  ends,  in  order  to  cobble 
an  old  pair  of  cow-hide  boots ;  he  being,  in  his  own 
phrase,  %i  something  of  a  dab  "  (whatever  degree  of  skill 
that  may  imply)  at  the  shoemaking  business.  We 
heard  the  tap  of  his  hammer,  at  intervals,  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  The  remainder  of  the  party  adjourned 
to  the  sitting-room.  Good  Mrs.  Foster  took  her  knit 
ting-work,  and  soon  fell  fast  asleep,  still  keeping  her 
needles  in  brisk  movement,  and,  to  the  best  of  my  ob 
servation,  absolutely  footing  a  stocking  out  of  the  texture 
of  a  dream.  And  a  very  substantial  stocking  it  seemed 
to  be.  One  of  the  two  handmaidens  hemmed  a  towel, 
and  the  other  appeared  to  be  making  a  ruffle,  for  her 
Sunday's  wear,  out  of  a  little  bit  of  embroidered  mus 
lin,  which  Zenobia  had  probably  given  her. 

It  was  curious  to  observe  how  trustingly,  and  yet  how 
timidly,  our  poor  Priscilla  betook  herself  into  the  shadott 
of  Zenobia's  protection.  She  sat  beside  her  on  a  stooJ 
looking  up,  every  now  and  then,  with  an  expression  of 
humble  delight,  at  her  new  friend'?  beauty.  A  brill ian 
woman  is  often  an  object  of  the  devoted  admiration  — 
it  might  almost  be  termed  worship,  or  idolatry  —  of  son>« 


UNTIL    BED- TIME.  41 

vaung  g-irl,  who  perhaps  beholds  the  cynosure  only  at  an 
nwi'ul  distance,  and  has  as  little  hope  of  personal  inter 
course  as  of  climbing  among  the  stars  of  heaven.  We 
men  are  too  gross  to  comprehend  it.  Even  a  woman, 
of  mature  age,  despises  or  laughs  at  such  a  passion. 
There  occurred  to  me  no  mode  of  accounting  for  Pris- 
cilia's  behavior,  except  by  supposing  that  she  had  read 
some  of  Zenobia's  stories  (as  such  literature  goes  every 
where),  or  her  tracts  in  defence  of  the  sex,  and  had  come 
hither  with  the  one  purpose  of  being  her  slave.  There 
is  nothing  parallel  to  this,  I  believe,  —  nothing  so  fool 
ishly  disinterested,  and  hardly  anything  so  beautiful,  — 
in  the  masculine  nature,  at  whatever  epoch  of  life ;  or, 
if  there  be,  a  fine  and  rare  development  of  character 
might  reasonably  be  looked  for  from  the  youth  who 
should  prove  himself  capable  of  such  self-forgetful  affec 
tion. 

Zenobia  happening  to  change  her  seat,  I  took  the 
opportunity,  in  an  under  tone,  to  suggest  some  such 
notion  as  the  above. 

"  Since  you  see  the  young  woman  in  so  poetical  a 
light,"  replied  she,  in  the  same  tone,  "  you  had  better 
turn  the  affair  into  a  ballad.  It  is  a  grand  subject,  and 
worthy  of  supernatural  machinery.  The  storm,  thfi 
startling  knock  at  the  door,  the  entrance  of  the  sable 
knight  Hollingsworth  and  this  shadowy  snow-maiden, 
who,  precisely  at  the  stroke  of  midnight,  shall  melt  away 
at  my  feet  in  a  pool  of  ice-cold  water,  and  give  me  my 
death  with  a  pair  of  wet  slippers  !  And  when  the  .erses 
are  written,  and  polished  quite  to  your  mind,  I  will  favoi 
you  with  m^  idea  as  to  what  the  girl  really  is." 


12  THE    Bf.  THEDALE    RO  IANCE. 

"  P  iy  let  i  5  have  ii  now,"  said  I ;  "it  shall  oe  voven 
into  the  ballad. " 

"  She  is  neither  more  nor  less,"  answered  Zenobia, 
"  than  a  seamstress  from  the  city  ;  and  she  has  probably 
no  more  transcendental  purpose  than  to  do  my  miscella 
neous  sewing,  foi  I  suppose  she  will  hardly  expect  to 
make  my  dresses." 

"  How  can  you  decide  upon  her  so  easily  ? "  I  in 
quired. 

"  O,  we  women  judge  one  another  by  tokens  that 
escape  the  obtuseness  of  masculine  perceptions,"  said 
Zenobia.  "  There  is  no  proof  which  you  would  be 
likely  to  appreciate,  except  the  needle-marks  on  the  dp 
of  her  fore-finger.  Then,  my  supposition  perfectly 
accounts  for  her  paleness,  her  nervousness,  and  her 
wretched  fragility.  Poor  thing  !  She  has  been  stifled 
with  the  heat  of  a  salamander-stove,  in  a  small,  close 
room,  and  has  drunk  coffee,  and  fed  upon  dough-nuts, 
raisins,  candy,  and  all  such  trash,  till  she  is  scarcely  half 
alive  ;  and  so,  as  she  has  hardly  any  physique,  a  poet, 
like  Mr.  Miles  Coverdale,  may  be  allowed  to  think  her 
spiritual." 

"  Look  at  her  now !  "  whispered  I. 

Priscilla  was  gazing  towards  us,  with  an  inexpressible 
sorrow  in  her  wan  face,  and  great  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks.  It  was  difficult  to  resist  the  impression  that 
cautiously  as  we  had  lowered  our  voices,  she  must  have 
overheard  and  been  wounded  by  Zenobia's  scornful 
estimate  of  her  character  and  purposes. 

<(  What  ears  the  girl  must  have ! "  whispered  Zenobia, 
with  a  look  of  vexation,  partly  comic,  and  partly  real 
"  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  cannot  quite  make  her  out 


UNTIL   BED-TIME.  ^3 

Rowerer,  5  am  positively  not  an  iL-natuied  person>  un 
less  when  very  grievously  provoked  ;  and  as  you,  and 
especially  Mr.  Hollingsworth,  take  so  much  interest  in 
this  odd  creature,  —  and  as  she  knocks,  with  a  very 
slight  tap,  against  my  own  heart,  likewise,  — why,  J 
mean  to  let  her  in.  From  this  moment,  I  will  be  rea 
sonably  kind  to  her.  There  is  no  pleasure  in  torment 
ing  a  person  of  one's  own  sex,  even  if  she  do  favor  one 
with  a  little  more  love  than  one  can  conveniently  dis 
pose  of;  —  and  that,  let  me  say,  Mr.  Coverdale,  is  the 
most  troublesome  offence  you  can  offer  to  a  woman." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I,  smiling;  "1  don't  mean  to  be 
guilty  of  it." 

She  went  towards  Priscilla,  took  her  hand,  and  passed 
her  own  rosy  finger-tips,  with  a  pretty,  caressing  move 
ment,  over  the  girl's  hair.  The  touch  had  a  magical 
effect.  So  vivid  a  look  of  joy  flushed  up  beneath  those 
lingers,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  sad  and  wan  Prise  ills 
had  been  snatched  away,  and  another  kind  of  creature 
substituted  in  her  place.  This  one  caress,  bestowed  vol 
untarily  by  Zenobia,  was  evidently  received  as  a  pledge 
of  all  that  the  stranger  sought  from  her,  whatever  the 
unuttered  boon  might  be.  From  that  instant,  too,  she 
melted  in  quietly  amongst  us,  and  was  no  longer  a  for 
eign  element.  Though  always  an  object  of  peculiai 
interest,  a  riddle,  and  a  theme  of  frequent  discussion, 
her  tenure  at  Blithedale  was  thenceforth  fixed.  We  no 
more  thought  of  questioning  it,  than  if  Priscilla  had  been 
recognized  as  a  domestic  sprite,  who  had  haunted  the 
rustic  fireside,  of  old,  before  we  had  ever  been  warmed 
by  its  blaze. 

She   now  produced,  out  of  %  work-bag  that  she  had 


44  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

w'.th  her,  some  little  wooden  instruments  (what  they  arc 
called,  1  never  knew),  and  proceeded  to  knit,  or  net,  an 
article  which  ultimately  took  the  shape  of  a  sL'k  purse. 
As  the  work  went  in,  I  remembered  to  have  seen  just 
such  purses  before .  indeed,  I  was  the  possessor  of  one. 
Their  peculiar  excellence,  besides  the  great  delicacy  and 
oeauty  of  the  manufacture,  lay  in  the  almost  impossibil 
ity  that  any  uninitiated  person  should  discover  the  aper 
ture  ;  although,  to  a  practised  touch,  they  would  open  as 
wide  as  charity  or  prodigality  might  wish.  I  wondered 
if  it  were  not  a  symbol  of  Priscilla's  own  mystery. 

Notwithstanding  the  new  confidence  with  which  Zeno- 
bia  had  inspired  her,  our  guest  showed  herself  disqui 
eted  by  the  storm.  When  the  strong  puffs  of  wind  spat 
tered  the  snow  against  the  windows,  and  made  the  oaken 
frame  of  the  farm-house  creak,  she  looked  at  us  appre- 
nensively,  as  if  to  inquire  whether  these  tempestuous 
outbreaks  did  not  betoken  some  unusual  mischief  in  the 
shrieking  blast.  She  had  been  bred  up,  no  doubt,  in 
some  close  nook,  some  inauspiciously  sheltered  court  of 
the  city,  where  the  uttermost  rage  of  a  tempest,  though 
it  might  scatter  down  the  slates  of  the  roof  into  the 
cricked  area,  could  not  shake  the  casement  of  her  little 
room.  The  sense  of  vast,  undefined  space,  pressing 
from  the  outside  agaitist  the  black  panes  of  our  uncur 
tained  windows,  was  fearful  to  the  poor  girl,  heretofore 
accustomed  to  the  narrowness  of  human  limits,  with  the 
lamps  of  neighboring  tenements  glimmering  across  the 
street.  The  house  probably  itemed  to  her  adrift  on  the 
great  ocean  of  the  night.  A  little  parallelogram  of  sky 
wras  all  that  she  had  hitherto  known  of  nature,  so  that 
she  felt  the  awfulness  that  really  exists  in  its  limitless 


UNTIL   BED-TIMS. 

extent.  Once,  while  the  blast  was  bellowing,  she  caught 
hold  of  Zenooia's  robe,  with  precisely  the  air  of  one  who 
hears  her  own  name  spoken  at  a  distance,  but  is  unut- 
teiably  reluctant  to  obey  the  call. 

We  spent  rather  an  incommunicative  evening.  Hol- 
hngsworth  hardly  said  a  word,  unless  when  repeatedly 
and  pertinaciously  addressed.  Then,  indeed,  he  would 
glare  upon  us  from  the  thick  shrubbery  of  his  medita 
tions  like  a  tiger  out  of  a  jungle,  -make  the  briefest  reply 
possible,  and  betake  himself  back  into  the  solitude  of  his 
heart  and  mind.  The  poor  fellow  had  contracted  this 
ungracic  us  habit  from  the  intensity  with  which  he  con 
templated  his  own  ideas,  and  the  infrequent  sympathy 
which  they  met  with  from  his  auditors,  —  a  circumstance 
that  seemed  only  to  strengthen  the  implicit  confidence 
that  he  awarded  to  them.  His  heart,  I  imagine,  was 
never  really  interested  in  our  socialist  scheme,  but  was 
forever  busy  with  his  strange,  and,  as  most  people  thought 
it,  impracticable  plan,  for  the  reformation  of  criminals 
through  an  appeal  to  their  higher  instincts.  Much  as  1 
liked  Hollingsworth,  it  cost  me  many  a  groan  to  tolerate 
him  on  this  point.  He  ought  to  have  commenced  his 
investigation  of  the  subject  by  perpetrating  some  huge 
sin  in  his  proper  person,  and  examining  the  condition  of 
bis  higher  instincts  afterwards. 

The  rest  of  us  formed  ourselves  into  a  committee  foi 
providing  our  infant  community  with  an  appropriate 
name,  —  a  matter  of  greatly  more  difficulty  than  the 
uninitiated  reader  would  suppose.  Blithedale  was  nei 
iher  good  nor  bad.  We  should  have  resumed  the  old 
Indian  name  of  the  premises,  had  it  possessed  the  oil-and- 
honey  flow  which  the  aborigines  were  sa  often  happy  IL 


16  THE    BLITHEEALE    ROMANCE. 

communicating  to  their  local  appellations ;  but  itchanceu 
to  le  a  harsh,  ill-connected,  and  interminable  word,  which 
seemed  to  fill  the  mouth  with  a  mixture  or*  very  stiff  clay 
and  very  crumbly  pebbles.  Zenobia  suggested  "  SuuflJ 
Glimpse, "as  expressive  of  a  vista  into  a  better  system  of 
society.  This  we  turned  over  and  over,  for  a  while 
acknowledging  its  prettiness,  but  concluded  it  to  be  rather 
too  fin6  and  sentimental  a  name  (a  fault  inevitable  by 
literary  ^adies,  in  such  attempts)  for  sun-burnt  men  to 
woik  under.  I  ventured  to  whisper  "  Utopia,"  which, 
however,  was  unanimously  scouted  down,  and  the  pro 
poser  very  harshly  maltreated,  as  if  he  had  intended  a 
latent  satire.  Some  were  for  calling  our  institution 
"  The  Oasis,"  in  view  of  its  being  the  one  green  spot  in 
the  moral  sand-waste  of  the  world ;  but  others  insisted 
on  a  proviso  for  reconsidering  the  matter  at  a  twelve 
month's  end,  when  a  final  decision  might  be  hadT 
whether  to  name  it  "  The  Oasis,"  or  Sahara.  So,  at 
last,  finding  it  impracticable  to  hammer  out  anything 
better,  we  resolved  that  the  spot  should  still  be  Blithe- 
dale,  as  being  of  good  augury  enough. 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  the  outer  solitude  looked 
in  upon  us  through  the  windows,  gloomy,  wild  and 
vague,  like  another  state  of  existence,  close  beside  the 
little  sphere  of  warmth  and  light  in  which  we  were  the 
prattlers  and  bustlers  of  a  moment.  By  and  by,  the 
door  was  opened  by  Silas  Foster,  with  a  cotton  handker 
chief  about  his  head,  and  a  'allow  candle  in  his  hand. 

"  Take  my  advice,  brother  farmers,"  said  he,  with  a 
grr\t,  broad,  bottomless  yawn,  "and  get  to  bed  as  soon 
p?  you  cnn.  I  shall  sound  the  horn  at  daybreak;  and 


UNTIL   BED-TIME.  41 

«ve  Ve  got  t)>e  cattle  to  fodder,  and  nine  cow?  to  milk 
and  a  dozen  other  things  to  do,  before  breakfast/' 

Thus  ended  the  first  evening  at  Blithedale.  I  went 
shivering  to  my  fireless  chamber,  with  the  miserable  con 
sciousness  (which  had  been  ^.  owing  upon  me  for  several 
hours  past)  that  I  had  caught  a  tremendous  cold,  and 
should  probably  awaken,  at  the  blast  of  the  horn,  a  fit 
subject  for  a  hospital.  The  night  proved  a  feverish  cne. 
inuring  the  greater  part  of  it,  I  was  in  that  vilest  of 
states  when  a  fixed  idea  remains  in  the  mind,  like  the 
nail  in  Sisera's  brain,  while  innumerable  other  ideas  go 
und  come>  and  flutter  to  and  fro,  combining  constant 
transition  with  intolerable  sameness.  Had  I  made  a 
record  of  that  night's  half-waking  dreams,  it  is  my  belief 
that  it  would  have  anticipated  several  of  the  chief  inci 
dents  of  this  narrative,  including  a  dim  shadow  of  its 
catastrophe.  Starting  up  in  bed,  at  length,  I  saw  that 
the  storm  was  past,  and  the  moon  was  shining  on  the 
snowy  landscape,  which  looked  like  a  lifeless  copy  of  the 
world  in  marble. 

From  the  bank  of  the  distant  river,  which  was  shim 
mering  in  the  moonlight,  came  the  black  shadow  of  the 
only  cloud  in  heaven,  driven  swiftly  by  the  wind,  and 
passing  over  meadow  and  hillock,  vanishing  amid  tufts 
of  leafless  trees,  but  reappearing  on  the  hither  side,  until 
it  swept  across  our  door-step. 

How  cold  an  Arcadia  was 


VI, 

COVERDALE'S  SICK-CHAMBER. 

IHE  horn  sounded  at  daybreak,  as  Silas  Foster  ti!»" 
forewarned  us,  harsh,  uproarious,  inexorably  drawn  out 
and  as  sleep-dispelling  as  if  this  hard-hearted  oM  yeo 
man  had  got  hold  of  the  trump  of  doom. 

On  all  sides  I  could  hear  the  creaking  of  the  bed 
steads,  as  the  brethren  of  Blithedale  started  from  slum 
ber,  and  thrust  themselves  into  their  habiliments,  all 
awry,  no  doubt,  in  their  haste  to  begin  the  reformation 
of  the  world.  Zenobia  put  her  head  into  the  entry,  and 
besought  Silas  Foster  to  cease  his  clamor,  and  to  be  kind 
enough  to  leave  an  armful  of  firewood  and  a  pail  of  watei 
at  her  chamber-door.  Of  the  whole  household,  —  uri- 
les .-,  ;ndced,  it  were  Priscilla,  for  whose  habits,  in  this 
pi>/tku!ar,  I  carmot  vouch,  —  of  all  our  apostolic  society, 
whose  mission  was  to  bless  mankind,  Hollingsworth,  I 
apprehend,  wos  the  only  one  who  began  the  enterprise 
with  praye/.  My  sleeping-room  being  but  thinly  par 
titioned  from  his,  the  solemn  murmur  of  his  voice  made 
its  way  to  my  ears,  compelling  me  to  be  an  auditor  of  his 
awful  privacy  with  the  Creator.  It  affected  me  with  a 
deep  reverence  for  Hollingsworth,  which  no  familiarity 
then  existing,  or  that  afterwards  grew  more  intimate 
between  us,  —  no,  nor  my  subsequent  perception  of  his 
own  great  errors,  —  ever  quite  effaced.  K  if;  so  rare,  in 
these  timi>?,  to  meet  with  a  man  01  piay-rful  habits 


COVERDALE'S  SICK-CHAMBER  49 

(except,  ;>f  course,  in  the  pulpit),  that  such  an  one  is 
decidedly  marked  out  by  a  light  of  transfiguration,  shed 
upon  him  in  the  divine  interview  from  which  he  passes 
into  his  daily  life. 

As  foi  me,  I  lay  abed ;  and  if  I  said  my  prayers,  it 
was  backward,  cursing  my  day  as  bitterly  as  patient  Job 
himself.  The  truth  was,  the  hot-house  warmth  of  a 
town-residence,  and  the  luxurious  life  in  which  I  in 
dulged  myself,  had  taken  much  of  the  pith  out  of  my 
physical  system ;  and  the  wintry  blast  of  the  preceding 
day,  together  with  the  general  chill  of  our  airy  old  farm 
house,  had  got  fairly  into  my  heart  and  the  morrow  of 
my  bones.  In  this  predicament,  I  seriously  wished  — 
selfish  as  it  may  appear  —  that  the  reformation  of 
society  had  been  postponed  about  half  a  century,  or,  at 
all  events,  to  such  a  date  as  should  have  put  my  inter 
meddling  with  it  entirely  out  of  the  question. 

What,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  had  I  to  do 
with  any  better  society  than  I  had  always  lived  in  ?  It 
had  satisfied  me  well  enough.  My  pleasant  bachelor- 
parlor,  sunny  and  shadowy,  curtained  and  carpeted,  with 
the  bed-chamber  adjoining  ;  my  centre-table,  strewn  with 
books  and  periodicals  ;  my  writing-desk,  with  a  half- 
finished  poem,  in  a  stanza  of  my  own  contrivance ;  my 
morning  lounge  at  the  reading-room  or  picture-gallery; 
my  noontide  walk  along  the  cheery  pavement,  with  the 
suggestive  succession  of  human  faces,  and  the  brisk 
throb  of  human  life,  in  which  I  shared ;  my  dinner  at 
the  Albion,  where  I  had  a  hundred  dishes  at  command, 
and  could  banquet  as  delicately  as  the  wiza;d  Michael 
Scott  when  the  devil  fed  him  from  the  King  of  France's 
kitchen ;  my  evening  at  the  billiard-club,  the  concert,  the 
4 


50  THE    BLITHfiDALE    30MANCB 

theatre,  or  at  somebody's  party,  if  I  pleased ;  —  what 
could  be  better  than  all  this  ?  Was  it  better  to  hce,  to 
mow,  to  toil  and  moil  amidst  the  accumulations  of  a 
Dam-yard ;  tc  be  tht  chamber-maid  of  two  yoke  of  oxen 
and  a  dozen  cows ;  to  eat  salt  beef,  and^earn  it  with  the 
sweat  of  my  brow,  and  thereby  take  the  tough  morsei 
out  of  some  wretch's  mouth,  into  whose  vocation  I  hart 
thrust  myself?  Above  all,  was  it  better  to  have  a  fever 
and  die  blaspheming,  as  I  was  like  to  do  ? 

In  this  wretched  plight,  with  a  furnace  in  my  heart, 
and  another  in  my  head,  by  the  heat  of  which  I  was 
kept  constantly  at  the  boiling  point,  yet  shivering  at  the 
bare  idea  of  extruding  so  much  as  a  finger  into  the  icy 
atmosphere  of  the  room,  I  kept  my  bed  until  breakfast- 
time,  when  Hollingsworth  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
entered. 

"Well,  Coverdale,"  cried  he,  "  you  bid  fair  to  make 
an  admirable  farmer !  Don't  you  mean  to  get  up  to- 
Jay  ?  " 

"  Neither  to-day  nor  to-morrow,"  said  I,  hopelessly. 
"  T  doubt  if  I  ever  rise  again  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter,  now  ? "  he  asked. 

I  told  him  my  piteous  case,  and  besought  him  to  send 
me  back  to  town  in  a  close  carriage. 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Hollingsworth,  with  kindly  serious- 
ness.  "  If  you  are  really  sick,  we  must  take  care  of 
you/' 

Accordingly,  he  built  a  fire  in  my  chamber,  and,  hav 
ing  .ittle  else  to  do  while  the  snow  lay  on  the  ground 
estat  lished  himself  as  my  nurse.  A  doctor  was  sent 
for,  wno,  being  homoeopathic,  gave  me  as  much  medicine 
in  the  course  of  a  fortnight's  attendance,  as  would  have 


COVERDALE'S  WICK-CHAMBER.  61 

to»rt  on  the  point  if  a  needle.  They  fed  me  on  water* 
£rael,  and  I  speedily  became  a  skeleton  above  ground, 
But,  ufter  all,  I  have  many  precious  recollections  con 
nected  witlr  that  fit  of  sickness. 

I  Hollingsworth's  more  than  brotherly  attendance  gave 
me  inexpressible  comfort.  Most  men  —  and  certainly  I 
could  not  always  claim  to  be  one  of  the  exceptions  — 
Have  t»  natural  indifference,  if  not  an  absolutely  hostile 
feeling,  towards  those  whom  disease,  or  weakness,  or 
calamity  of  any  kind,  causes  to  falter  and  faint  amid 
the  rude  jostle  of  our  selfish  existence.  The  education 
of  Christianity,  it  is  true,  the  sympathy  of  a  like  experi 
ence  and  the  example  of  women,  may  soften,  and,  pos 
sibly,  subvert,  this  ugly  characteristic  of  our  sex;  but  it 
is  originally  there,  and  has  likewise  its  analogy  in  the 
practice  of  our  brute  brethren,  who  hunt  the  sick  or  dis 
abled  member  of  the  herd  from  among  them,  as  an 
enemy.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  stricken  deer  goe* 
apart,  and  the  sick  lion  grimly  withdraws  himself  intt 
his  don.  Except  in  love,  or  the  attachments  of  kindred, 
or  other  very  long  and  habitual  affection,  we  really  have 
no  tenderness.  But  there  was  something  of  the  woman 
moulded  into  the  great,  stalwart  frame  of  Hollingsworth ; 
nor  was  he  ashamed  of  it,  as  men  often  are  of  what  is 
best  in  them,  nor  seemed  ever  to  know  that  there  was 
such  a  soti  place  in  his  heart.  I  knew  it  well,  however, 
at  that  time,  although  afterwards  it  came  nigh  to  be 
forgotten.  Methought  there  could  not  be  two  such  men 
alive  ab  Hollingsworth.  There  never  was  any  blaze  of 
a  fireside  that  warmed  and  cheered  me,  in  the  down- 
sinVings  and  shivering?-  of  n  v  spirit,  sr  effectually  a* 


52  THE    BLIIIIEDALE    ROMANCE. 

did  the  light  out  of  those  eyes,  which  laf  so  deep  and 
dark  under  his  shaggy  brows. 

Happy  the  man  that  has  such  a  friend  beside  him 
when  he  comes  to  die  !  and  unless  a  friend  like  Hollings- 
worth  be  at  hand,  —  as  most  probably  there  will  not,  —  he 
had  better  make  up  his  mind  to  die  alone.  How  many 
men,  I  wonder,  does  one  meet  with,  in  a  lifetime,  whom 
he  would  choose  for  his  death-bed  companions !  At  the 
ci  isis  of  my  fever,  I  besought  Hollingsworth  to  let  nobody 
else  enter  the  room,  but  continually  to  make  me  sensible 
of  his  own  presence,  by  a  grasp  of  the  hand,  a  word,  a 
prayer,  if  he  thought  good  to  utter  it ;  and  that  then  he 
-hould  be  the  witness  how  courageously  I  would  en- 
Counter  the  worst.  It  still  impresses  me  as  almost  a 
,«iatter  of  regret,  that  I  did  not  die  then,  when  I  had 
olerably  made  up  my  mind  to  it;  for  Hollingsworth 
•rould  have  gone  with  me  to  the  hither  verge  of  life, 
*ud  have  sent  his  friendly  and  hopeful  accents  far  over 
m  the  other  side,  while  I  should  be  treading  the  un 
known  path.  Now,  were  I  to  send  for  him,  he  would 
hardly  come  to  my  bed-side,  nor  should  I  depart  the 
easier  for  his  presence. 

"You  are  not  going  to  die,  this  time,"  said  he, 
gravely  smiling.  "  You  know  nothing  about  sickness, 
and  think  your  case  a  great  deal  more  desperate  than  it 
is." 

"  Death  should  take  me  while  I  am  in  the  mood," 
implied  I,  with  a  little  of  my  customary  levity. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  do  in  life,"  asked  Hollings^ 
worth,  "  that  you  fancy  yourse J  so  ready  to  leave  it  ? " 

"Nothing,"  answered  I;  "nothing,  that  I  know  of 
nnless  to  make  pretty  verses,  and  play  a  part,  with 


COVERDALE'S  SICK-CHAMBER.  53 

Teaobia  aud  the  rest  of  the  amateurs,  in  our  pastoral 
It  seems  but  an  unsubstantial  sort  of  business,  as  viewed 
riirough  a  mist  of  fever.  But,  dear  Ho'lingsworth,  your 
own  vocation  is  evidently  to  be  a  priest,  and  to  spend 
your  days  and  nights  in  helping  your  fellow-creatures  to 
draw  peaceful  dying  breaths." 

"  And  by  which  of  my  qualities,"  inquired  he,  "  can 
you  suppose  n,  e  fitted  for  this  awful  ministry  ?  " 

"  By  your  tenderness,"  I  said.  "  It  seems  to  me  the 
reflection  of  God's  own  love." 

"  And  you  call  me  tender !  "  repeated  Hollingsworth, 
thoughtfully.  "I  should  rather  say  that  the  most 
marked  trait  in  my  character  is  an  inflexible  severity  of 
purpose.  Mortal  man  has  no  right  to  be  so  inflexible  as 
it  is  my  nature  and  necessity  to  be." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  I  replied. 

But,  in  due  time,  I  remembered  what  he  said. 

Probably,  as  Hollingsworth  suggested,  my  disorder 
\vas  never  so  serious  as,  in  my  ignorance  of  such  mat 
ters,  I  was  inclined  to  consider  it.  After  so  much  tragi 
cal  preparation,  it  was  positively  rather  mortifying  to 
find  myself  on  the  mending  hand. 

All  the  other  members  of  the  Community  showed  mt* 
kindness  according  to  the  full  measure  of  their  capacity 
Zenobia  brought  me  my  gruel,  every  day,  made  by  hel 
own  hands  (not  very  skilfully,  if  the  truth  must  be  told) , 
and  whenever  I  seemed  inclined  to  converse,  would  sit 
by  my  bed-side,  and  talk  with  so  much  vivacity  as  to 
add  several  gratuitous  throbs  to  my  pulse.  Her  poor 
little  stories  and  tracts  never  half  did  justice  to  her  intel 
lect.  It  was  only  the  lack  of  a  fitter  avenue  that  drov^ 
her  to  seek  development  in  literature.  She  was  mad* 


51  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

(among  a  thousand  other  things  that  she  might  have 
been)  for  a  stump-ora tress.  I  recognized  no  severe  cuJ 
ture  in  Zenobia  ;  her  mind  was  full  of  weeds.  It  startled 
me,  sometimes,  in  my  stafe  of  moral  as  well  as  bodily 
faint-heartedness,  to  observe  the  hardihood  of  (ief  pnlloso 
phy.  She  made  no  scruple  of  oversetting  all  human 
institutions,  and  scattering  them  as  with  a  breeze  from 
her  fan.  A  female  reformer,  in  her  attacks  upon  society, 
has  an  instinctive  sense  of  where  the  life  lies,  and  is 
inclined  to  aim  directly  at  that  spot.  Especially  the 
relation  between  the  sexes  is  naturally  among  the 
earliest  to  attract  her  notice. 

Zenobia  was  truly  a  magnificent  woman.  The  homely 
simplicity  of  her  dress  could  not  conceal,' nor  scarcely 
diminish,  the  queenliness  of  her  presence.  The  image 
of  her  form  and  face  should  have  been  multiplied  all 
over  the  earth.  It  was  wronging  the  rest  of  mankind 
to  retain  her  as  the  spectacle  of  only  a  few.  The  stage 
would  have  been  her  proper  sphere.  She  should  have 
made  it  a  point  of  duty,  moreover,  to  sit  endlessly  to 
painters  and  sculptors,  and  preferably  to  the  latter; 
because  the  cold  decorum  of  the  marble  would  consist 
with  the  utmost  scantiness  of  drapery,  so  that  the  eye 
might  chastely  be  gladdened  with  her  material  perfec 
tion  in  its  entireness.  I  know  not  well  how  to  express, 
that  the  native  glow  of  coloring  in  her  cheeks,  and  even 
the  flesh-warmth  over  her  round  arms,  and  what  was 
visible  of  her  full  bust,  —  in  a  word,  h  ,r  womanliness 
incarnated,  —  compelled  me  sometimes  to  close  my  eyes, 
as  if  it  were  not  quite  the  privilege  of  modesty  to  gaze 
at  her.  Illness  and  exhaustion,  no  doubt,  had  made  mr 
morbidly  sensitive. 


COVERDALiS'S    SICK -CHAMBER.  51) 

1  nodced  —  and  wondered  how  Zenobia  contrived  it — 
that  ?he  hai  always  a  new  flower  in  her  hair.  And 
<*tili  it  was  a  hot-house  flower  —  an  outlandish  flower. 
-  a  flower  of  the  tropics,  such  as  appeared  to  have 
sprung  passionately  out  of  a  soil  the  very  weeds  of  which 
would  be  fervid  and  spicy.  Unlike  as  was  the  flower 
of  each  successive  day  to  the  preceding  one,  it  yet  so 
assimilated  its  richness  to  the  rich  beauty  of  the  woman, 
that  I  thought  it  the  only  flower  fit  to  be  woni ;  so  fit, 
indeed,  that  Nature  had  evidently  created  this  floral 
gem,  in  a  happy  exuberance,  for  the  one  purpose  of 
worthily  adorning  Zenobia 's  head.  It  might  be  that  my 
feverish  fantasies  clustered  themselves  about  this  pecu 
liarity,  and  caused  it  to  look  more  gorgeous  and  wonder 
ful  than  if  beheld  with  temperate  eyes.  In  the  height 
of  my  illness,  as  I  well  recollect,  I  went  so  far  as  to  pro 
nounce  it  preternatural. 

"  Zenobia  is  an  enchantress  ! "  whispered  I  once  to 
Rollings  worth.  "  She  is  a  sister  of  the  Veiled  Lady. 
That  flower  in  her  hair  is  a  talisman.  If  you  were  to 
snatch  it  away,  she  would  vanish,  or  be  transformed  into 
something  else." 

"  What  does  he  say  1 "  asked  Zenobia. 

"  Nothing  that  has  an  atom  of  sense  in  it,"  answered 
Rollings  worth.  "  He  is  a  little  beside  himself,  I  believe, 
arid  talks  about  your  being  a  witch,  and  of  some  magical 
property  in  the  flower  that  you  wear  in  your  hair." 

"  It  is  an  idea  worthy  of  a  feverish  poet,"  said  she, 
laughing  rather  compassionately,  and  taking  out  the 
flower.  "  I  scorn  to  owe  anything  to  magic.  Here,  Mr 
Rollings-  vorth,  you  may  keep  the  spell  while  it  has  anv 
rirtue  in  it;  but  I  cannot  promise  you  no1  toappsarwitfc 


56  THE    BLITHE!  >LE    ROMANCE. 

a  n2\v  one  tcnnorrow.  It  is  the  one  relic  of  my  noiw 
brilliant,  .my  happier  days  !  " 

The  most  curious  part  of  the  matter  was,  that  long 
after  my  slight  delirium  had  passed  away,  —  as  long, 
indeed,  as  I  continued  to  know  this  remarkable  woman, 

-her  daily  flower  affected  my  imagination,  though 
more  slightly,  yet  in  very  much  the  same  way.  The 
reason  must  have  been  that,  whether  intentionally  on 
her  part  or  not,  this  favorite  ornament  was  actually  a 
subtile  expression  of  Zenobia's  character. 

One  subject,  about  which  —  very  impertinently,  more 
over  —  I  perplexed  myself  with  a  great  many  conjec 
tures,  was,  whether  Zenobia  had  ever  been  married. 
The  idea,  it  must  be  understood,  was  unauthorized  by 
liny  circumstance  or  suggestion  that  had  made  its  way 
to  my  ears.  So  young  as  I  beheld  her,  and  the  freshest 
and  rosiest  woman  of  a  thousand,  there  was  certainly  no 
need  of  imputing  to  her  a  destiny  already  accomplished ; 
the  probability  was  far  greater  that  her  coming  years 
had  all  life's  richest  gifts  to  bring.  If  the  great  event 
of  a  woman's  existence  had  been  consummated,  the  world 
knew  nothing  of  it,  although  the  world  seemed  to  know 
Zenobia  well.  It  was  a  ridiculous  piece  of  romance, 
undoubtedly,  to  imagine  that  this  beautiful  personage, 
wealthy  as  she  was,  and  holding  a  position  that  might 
fairly  enough  be  called  distinguished,  could  have  given 
herself  away  so  privately,  but  that  some  whisper  and 
suspicion,  and,  by  degrees,  a  full  understanding  of  the 
(act,  would  eventually  be  blown  abroad.  But  then,  as  1 
failed  not  to  consider,  her  original  home  was  at  a  dis 
tance  of  many  hundred  miles.  Rumors  might  (ill  the 
accia  itmo.'^.ere,  or  might  once  have  filled  it,  there 


cCVERDALE S    SI  "K-OH  AMBER.  5*1 

wuich  would  travel  but  slowly,  against  the  w:nd,  towards 
our  north-eastern  metropolis,  and  perhaps  melt  into  thin 
air  before  reaching  it. 

There  was  not  —  and  I  distinctly  repeat  it  —  the 
slightest  foundation  in  my  knowledge  for  any  surmise  of 
the  kind,  But  there  is  a  species  of  intuition,  —  either  a 
spiritual  lie,  or  the  subtle  recognition  of  a  fact,  —  which 
comes  to  us  in  a  reduced  state  of  the  corporeal  system, 
The  soul  gets  the  better  of  the  body,  after  wasting  ill 
ness,  or  when  a  vegetable  diet  may  have  mingled  too 
much  ether  in  the  blood.  Vapors  then  rise  up  to  the 
brain,  and  take  shapes  that  often  image  falsehood,  but 
sometimes  truth.  The  spheres  of  our  companions  have, 
at  such  periods,  a  vastly  greater  influence  upon  our  own 
than  when  robust  health  gives  us  a  repellent  and  self- 
defensive  energy.  Zenobia's  sphere,  I  imagine,  impressed 
itself  powerfully  on  mine,  and  transformed  me,  during 
this  period  of  my  weakness,  into  something  like  a  mes- 
merical  clairvoyant. 

Then,  also,  as  anybody  could  observe,  the  freedom  of 
her  deportment  (though,  to  some  tastes,  it  might  com 
mend  itself  as  the  utmost  perfection  of  manner  in  a 
youthful  widow  or  a  blooming  matron)  was  not  exactly 
maiden-like.  What  girl  had  ever  laughed  as  Zenobia 
did  ?  What  girl  had  ever  spoken  in  her  mellow  tones  ? 
Her  unconstrained  and  inevitable  manifestation.  I  said 
often  to  myself,  was  that  of  a  woman  to  whom  wedlock 
had  thrown  wide  the  gates  of  mystery.  Yet  sometimes 
I  strove  to  be  ashamed  of  these  conjectures.  I  acknowl 
edged  it  as  a  masculine  grossness,  —  a  sin  of  wicked 
'interpretation,  of  v/hich  man  is  often  guilty  towards  the 
other  ser,  —  thus  tc  mistake  the  sweet  liberal,  buf 


58  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROM/.NCF 

womanly  frankness  of  a  noble  and  generous  disposition 
StiL,  it  was  of  no  avail  to  reason  with  myself,  nor  to  up 
craid  myself.  Pertinaciously  the  thought,  "  Zenobia  is  a 
wife,  —  Zenobia  has  lived  and  loved  !  There  is  no  folded 
petal,  no  latent  dew-drop,  in  this  perfectly-developed 
rose  !  "  —  irresistibly  that  thought  drove  out  all  other 
jonclusions,  as  often  as  my  mind  reverted  to  the  subject. 

Zenobia  was  conscious  of  my  observation,  though  not, 
I  presume,  of  the  point  to  which  it  led  me. 

"  Mr.  Coverdale,"  said  she,  one  day,  as  she  saw  me 
watching  her,  while  she  arranged  my  gruel  on  the  table, 
•'  I  have  been  exposed  to  a  great  deal  of  eye-shot  m  the 
tew  years  of  my  mixing  in  the  world,  but  never,  I  think 
to  precisely  such  glances  as  you  are  in  the  habit  of 
favoring  me  with.  I  seem  to  interest  you  very  much  ; 
and  yet  —  or  else  a  woman's  instinct  is  for  once 
deceived  —  I  cannot  reckon  you  as  an  admirer.  What 
are  you  seeking  to  discover  in  me  ?  " 

"  The  mystery  of  your  life,"  answered  I,  surprised  into 
the  truth  *by  the  unexpectedness  of  her  attack.  "And 
you  will  never  tell  me." 

She  bent  her  head  towards  me,  arid  let  me  look  into 
her  eyes,  as  if  challenging  me  to  drop  a  plummet-line 
down  into  the  depths  of  her  consciousness. 

"  I  see  nothing  now,"  said  I,  closing  my  own  eyes, 
"  unless  it  be  the  face  of  a  sprite  laughing  at  me  from 
the  bottom  of  a  deep  well." 

A  bachelor  always  feels  himself  defrauded,  when  he 
knows,  or  suspects,  that  any  woman  of  his  acquaintance 
tias  given  herself  away.  Otherwise,  the  matter  could 
have  been  no  concern  of  mine.  It  was  purely  specula 
*»ve  for  I  should  not,  under  any  circumstances,  h;ive 


COVERDALK'S  SICK-CHAMBER.  5^ 

fallen  in  love  with  Zenobia.  The  riddle  made  ir»e  so 
nervous,  however,  in  my  sensitive  condition  of  mind  and 
body,  that  I  most  ungratefully  began  to  wish  that  she 
would  let  me  alone.  Then,  too,  her  gruel  was  very 
wretched  stuff,  with  almost  invariably  the  smell  of  pine 
smoke  upon  it,  like  the  evil  taste  that  is  said  to  mix 
itself  up  with  a  witch's  best  concocted  dainties.  Why 
could  not  she  have  allowed  one  of  the  other  women  to 
take  the  gruel  in  charge  ?  Whatever  else  might  be  her 
gifts,  Nature  certainly  never  intended  Zenobia  for  a 
cook.  Or,  if  so,  she  should  have  meddled  only  with  the 
richest  and  spiciest  dishes,  and  such  as  are  to  be  tasted 
at  banquets,  between  draughts  of  intoxicating  wine. 


VII. 

THE  CONVALESCENT. 

As  soon  as  my  mcommodities  allowed  me  to  think  «rt 
past  occurrences,  1  failed  not  to  inquire  what  had  become 
of  the  odd  little  guest  whom  Hollingsworth  had  been  the 
medium  of  introducing  among  us.     It  now  appeared  that 
poor  Priscilla  had  not  so  literally  fallen  out  of  the  clouds 
as  we  were  at  first  inclined  to  suppose.     A  letter,  which 
should  have   introduced  her,  had  since   been   received 
from  one  of  the  city  missionaries,  containing  a  certificate 
of  character,  and  an  allusion  to  circumstances  which,  in 
the  writer's  judgment,  made  it  especially  desirable  that 
she  should  find  shelter  in  our  Community.    There  was  a 
hint,  not  very  intelligible,  implying  either  that  Priscilla 
had  recently  escaped  from  some  particular  peril  or  irk- 
someness  of  position,  or  else  that  she  was  still  liable  to 
this  danger  or  difficulty,  whatever   it  might  be.     We 
should  ill  have  deserved  the  reputation  of  a  benevolent 
fraternity,  had  we  hesitated  *o  entertain  a  petitioner  ir. 
such   need,  and  s ;    strongly  recommended  to  our  kind 
ness ;  not  to  mention,  moreover,  that  the  strange  maidei 
Kad  set  herself  diligently  to  work,  and  was  doing  gooi 
hcrvice  with  her  needle.     But  a  slight   mist  of  uncer 
taint y  still  floated  about  Priscilla,  and  kept  her,  as  yel 
from  taking  a  very  decided  place  among  creatures  oi 
flesh  and  blood. 

'I  he   mysterious   attraction,    which,    from    her    Pr«i 


THE    CONVALESCENT  6l 

entrance  on  oursce^e,  she  evinced  for  Zenobia,  had  los 
nothing  of  its  force.  I  often  heard  he?  footsteps,  soft  and 
low,  accompanying  the  light  but  decided  tread  of  the 
latter  up  the  staircase,  stealing  along  the  passage-way 
by  her  new  friend's  side,  and  pausing,  while  Zenobia 
entered  my  chamber.  Occasionally,  Zenobia  would  b? 
a  little  anno"yed  by  Priscilla's  too  close  attendance.  Ir 
an  authoritative  and  not  very  kindly  tone,  she  would 
ad  vise  her  to  breathe  the  pleasant  air  in  a  walk,  or  to  so 
Tvith  her  work  into  the  barn,  holding  out  .half  a  promise 
t>  come  and  sit  on  the  hay  with  her,  when  at  leisure. 
Evidently,  Priscilla  found  but  scanty  requital  for  hei 
love.  Hollingsworth  was  likewise  a  great  favorite  with 
her.  For  several  minutes  together,  sometimes,  while 
my  auditory  nerves  retained  the  susceptibility  of  delicate 
health,  I  used  to  hear  a  low,  pleasant  murmur,  ascend 
ing  from  the  room  below  ;  and  at  last  ascertained  it  to  be 
Priscilla's  voice,  babbling  like  a  little  brook  to  Hollings 
worth.  She  talked  more  largely  and  freely  with  hiir. 
than  with  Zenobia,  toTj^/ds  whom,  indeed,  her  feelings 
seemed  not  so  much  to  be  confidence  as  involuntary 
affection.  I  should  have  thought  all  the  better'  of  my 
own  qualities,  had  Priscilla  marked  me  out  for  the 
third  place  in  her  regards.  But,  though  she  appeared 
to  like  me  tolerably  well,  I  could  never  flatter  myself 
with  being  distinguished  by  her  as  Hollingsworth  and 
Zenobia  were. 

One  forenoon,  during  my  convalescence,  there  came  a 
gentle  tap  at  my  chamber-door.  I  immediately  said, 
rt  Come  in,  Priscilla ! "  with  an  acute  sense  of  the  appli 
cant's  identity.  Nor  was  I  deceived.  It  was  really 
Priscilla,  —  a  pale,  large-eyed  little  woman  (for  she 


62  THI,    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

nad  gone  far  enough  into  hex  teens  to  be,  at  least,  on 
the  outer  limit  of  girlhood),  but  much  less  wan  than  at 
my  previous  view  of  her,  and  far  better  conditioned  both 
as  to  health  and  spirits.  As  I  first  saw  her,  she  had 
reminded  me  of  plants  that  one  sometimes  ofo^rves 
doing  their  best  to  vegetate  among  the  bricks  of  an 
enclosed  court,  where  there  is  scanty  soil,  arfd  never  any 
sunshine.  At  present,  though  with  no  approach  to 
bloom,  there  were  indications  that  the  girl  had  human 
blood  in  her  veins. 

Priscilla  came  softly  to  my  bed-side,  and  held  out  an 
article  of  snow-white  linen,  very  carefully  and  smoothly 
ironed.  She  did  not  seem  bashful,  nor  anywise  embar 
rassed.  My  weakly  condition,  I  suppose,  supplied  a 
medium  in  which  she  could  approach  me. 

"  Do  not  you  need  this  ? "  asked  she.  "  I  have  made 
it  for  you." 

It  was  a  night-cap  ! 

"  My  dear  Priscilla,"  said  I,  smiling,  "  I  never  had  on  a 
night-cap  in  my  life  !  But  perhaps  it  will  be  better  foi 
me  to  wear  one,  now  that  I  am  a  miserable  invalid 
How  admirably  you  have  done  it !  No,  no  ;  I  aever  can 
think  of  wearing  such  an  exquisitely  wrought  night-cap 
as  this,  unless  it  be  in  the  day-time,  when  I  sit  up  to 
receive  company." 

"  It  is  for  use,  not  beauty,"  answered  Priscilla.  "  I 
tould  have  embroidered  it,  and  made  it  much  prettier,  if 
k  pleased." 

While  holding  up  the  night-cap,  and  admiring  the  fine 
needle- work,  I  perceived  that  Priscilla  had  a  sealed  let 
ter,  which  she  was  waiting  for  me  to  take.  It  had 
arrive  1  from  the  village  port-office  that  mornirg.  As  I 


THE    CONVAIEStENT.  OJ 

Unl  not  immediately  offer  to  receive  the  letter,  she  drew 
it  back,  and  held  it  against  her  bosom,  with  both  hands 
clasped  over  it,  in  a  way  that  had  probably  grown 
habitual  to  her.  Now,  on  turning  my  eyes  from  the 
night-cap  to  Priscilla,  it  forcibly  struck  me  that  her  air 
though  not  her  figure,  and  the  expression  of  her  face 
but  not  its  features,  had  a  resemblance  to  what  I  had 
often  seen  in  a  friend  of  mine,  one  of  the  most  gifted 
women  of  the  age.  I  cannot  describe  it.  The  points 
easiest  to  convey  to  the  reider  were,  a  certain  curve  of 
the  shoulders,  and  a  partial  closing  of  the  eyes,  which 
eemed  to  look  more  penetratingly  into  my  own  eyes, 
^  Tough  the  narrowed  apertures,  than  if  they  had  been 
o}  ;n  at  full  width.  It  was  a  singular  andhialy  of  like- 
nes.i  coexisting  with  perfect  dissimilitude. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  letter,  Priscilla  ?  "  said  1. 

She  started,  put  the  letter  into  my  hand,  and  quite 
lost  the  look  that  had  drawn  my  notice. 

"Priscilla,"  I  inquired,  "did  you  ever  see  Misa 
Margaret  Fuller  ? " 

"  No,"  she  answered. 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  you  reminded  me  of  her,  just 
now ;  and  it  happens,  strangely  enough,  that  this  very 
letter  is  from  her." 

Priscilla,  for  whatever  reason,  looked  very  much  dis 
composed. 

"  I  wish  people  would  not  fancy  such  odd  things  in 
me  !  "  she  said,  rather  petulantly.  "  How  could  I  pos 
sibly  make  myself  resemble  this  lady,  merely  by  holding 
her  letter  in  my  hand  ?  " 

u  Certainly,  Priscilla,  it  would  puzzle  me  to  explain 
it, "  I  replied ;  "  nor  do  I  suppose  that  the  lettei  had  uuy 


64  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

thing  to  do  with  it      It  was  just  a  coincidence,  no'hmg 
more.'' 

She  hastened  out  of  the  room,  and  this  was  the  jasl 
that  I  saw  of  Priscilla  until  I  ceased  to  be  an  invalid. 

Being  rmich  alone,  during  my  recovery,  I  read  inter 
minably  in  Mr.  Emerson's  Essays,  the  Dial,  Carlyle's 
works,  George  Sand's  romances  (lent  me  by  Zenobia),  ai-d 
other  books  which  one  or  another  of  the  brethren  01 
sisterhood  had  brought  with  them.  Agreeing  in  i  it  tie 
else,  most  of  these  utterances  were  like  the  cry  of  some 
solitary  seritine*,  whose  station  was  on  the  outposts  of 
the  advance-guard  of  human  progression ;  or,  sometimes, 
the  voice  came  sadly  from  among  the  shattered  ruins  oi 
the  past,  bift  yet  had  a  hopeful  echo  in  the  future. 
They  were  well  adapted  (better,  at  least,  than  any  other 
intellectual  products,  the  volatile  essence  of  which  had 
heretofore  tinctured  a  printed  page)  to  pilgrims  like 
ourselves,  whose  present  bivouac  was  considerably  fur 
ther  into  the  waste  of  chaos  than  any  mortal  army  of 
crusaders  had  ever  marched  before.  Fourier's  works, 
also,  in  a  series  of  horribly  tedious  volumes,  attracted  a 
good  deal  of  my  attention,  from  the  analog}'  which  i 
could  not  but  recognize  between  his  system  and  our 
own.  There  was  far  less  resemblance,  it  is  true,  than 
the  world  chose  to  imagine,  inasmuch  as  the  two  theories 
differed,  as  widely  as  the  zenith  from  the  nalir,  in  then 
nain  principles. 

I  talked  about  Fourier  to  Rollings  worth,  and  trans 
lated,  for  his  benefit,  some  of  the  passages  'hat  chief!) . 
impressed  me. 

"  When,  as  a  consequence  of  human  improvement, 
'•id  I,     the  globe  shall  arrive  at  its  final  perfection,  th» 


THE    CONVALESCENT.  65 

greai  ocean  is  to  be  converted  into  a  particular  kind  of 
lemonade,  such  as  was  fashionable  at  Paris  in  Fourier's 
time.  He  calls  it  limonade  a  cedre.  It  is  positively  a 
fact '.  Just  imagine  the  city-docks  filled,  every  day,  with 
a  flood-tide  of  this  delectable  beverage  !  " 

"  Why  did  not  the  Frenchman  make  punch  of  it,  at 
once  ?"  asked  Hollingsworth.  "  The  jack-tars  would  be 
delighted  to  go  down  in  ships  and  do  business  in  such 
an  element." 

I  further  proceeded  to  explain,  as  well  as  I  modestly 
could,  several  points  of  Fourier's  system,  illustrating 
them  with  here  and  there  a  page  or  two,  and  asking 
Hollingsworth's  opinion  as  to  the  expediency  of  intro 
ducing  these  beautiful  peculiarities  into  our  own  prac 
tice. 

"  Let  me  hear  no  more  of  it !  "  cried  he,  in  utter  dis 
gust.  "  I  never  will  forgive  this  fellow !  He  has  com 
mitted  the  unpardonable  sin ;  for  what  more  monstrous 
iniquity  could  the  devil  himself  contrive  than  to  choose 
the  selfish  principle,  —  the  principle  of  all  human  wrong, 
the  very  blackness  of  man's  heart,  the  portion  of  our 
selves  which  we  shudder  at,  and  which  it  is  the  whole 
aim  of  spiritual  discipline  to  eradicate,  —  to  choose  it  as 
the  master- workman  of  his  system  ?  To  seize  upon  and 
foster  whatever  vile,  .petty,  sordid,  filthy,  bestial  and 
abominable  corruptions  have  cankered  intc  our  nature, 
to  be  the  efficient  instruments  of  his  inferral  regenera 
iion !  And  his  consummated  Paradise,  as  he  pictures 
it,  would  be  worthy  of  the  agency  which  he  counts  upon 
for  establishing  it.  The  nauseous  villain  !  " 

"  Nevertheless,"  remarked  I,  "  in  consideration  of  th€ 
premised  delights  of  his  system,  —  so  very  proper,  as 
5 


6U  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

they  certainly  are,  to  be  appreciated  by  Fourier's  coun- 
trymen.  —  I  cannot  but  wonder  that  universal  France 
did  not  adopt  his  theory,  at  a  moment's  warning.  But 
is  there  not  something  very  characteristic  of  his  nation 
in  Fourier's  manner  of  putting  forth  his  views?  He 
makes  ro  claim  to  inspiration.  He  has  not  persuaded 
himself-  -as  Swedenborg  did,  and  as  any  other  than  a 
Frenchman  would,  with  a  mission  of  like  importance  to 
communicate  —  that  he  speaks  with  authority  frorh 
above.  He  promulgates  his  system;  so  far  as  I  can  per- 
.eive,  entirely  on  his  own  responsibility.  He  has 
searched  out  and  discovered  the  whole  counsel  of  the 
Almighty,  in  respect  to  mankind,  past,  present,  and  fo. 
exactly  seventy  thousand  years  to  come,  by  the  mere, 
"orce  and  cunning  of  his  individual  intellect !  " 

"  Take  the  book  out  of  my  sight,"  said  Hollingsworth 
with  great  virulence  of  expression,  "  or,  I  tell  you  fairly, 
I  shall  fling  it  in  the  fire  !  And  as  for  Fourier,  let  him 
make  a  Paradise,  if  he  can,  of  Gehenna,  where,  as  I 
conscientiously  believe,  he  is  floundering  at  this  mo 
ment  !  " 

"  And  bellowing,  I  suppose,"  said  I,  —  not  that  I  felt 
any  ill-will  towards  Fourier,  but  merely  wanted  to  give 
the  finishing  touch  to  Holl  ings  worth's  image,  —  "  bellow 
ing  for  the  least  drop  of  his  beloved  limonade  a  ccdre !  " 

There  is  but  little  profit  to  be  expected  in  attempting 
to  argue  with  a  man  who  allows  himself  to  declaim  in 
this  manner ;  so  I  dropt  the  subject,  and  never  took  it 
up  again. 

But  had  the  system  at  which  he  was  so  enraged  com- 
oined  almost  any  amount  of  human  wisdom,  spiritua. 
insight,  and  imaginative  beauty,  1  question  whrthe 


THE    CONVALESCENT. 

Hoilingsworth's  mind  was  in  a  fit  condition  to  receive  it, 
£  began  to  discern  lhat  he  had  come  among  us  actuated 
by  no  real  sympathy  with  our  feelings  and  our  hopes, 
but  chiefly  because  we  were  estranging  ourselves  from 
the  world,  with  which  his  lonely  and  exclusive  object  in 
life  had  already  put  him  at  odds.  Holling^worth  must 
have  been  originally  endowed  with  a  great  spirit  of 
benevolence,  deep  enough  and  warm  enough  to  be  the 
source  of  as  much  disinterested  good  as  Providence  often 
allows  a  human  being  the  privilege  of  conferring  upon 
his  fellows.  This  native  instinct  yet  lived  within  him. 
I  myself  had  profited  by  it,  in  my  necessity.  It  was 
seen,  too,  in  his  treatment  of  Priscilla.  Such  casual  cir 
cumstances  as  were  here  involved  would  quicken  his 
divine  power  of  sympathy,  and  make  him  seem,  while 
their  influence  lasted,  the  tenderest  man  and  the  truest 
friend  on  earth.  But,  by  and  by,  you  missed  the  tender 
ness  of  yesterday,  and  grew  drearily  conscious  that  Hoi- 
lingsworth  had  a  closer  friend  than  ever  you  couM  be  ; 
and  this  friend  was  the  cold,  spectral  monster  which  he 
had  himself  conjured  up,  and  on  which  he  was  wasting 
all  the  warmth  of  his  heart,  and  of  which,  at  last,  —  as 
these  men  of  a  mighty  purpose  so  invariably  do,  —  he 
had  grown  to  be  the  bond-slave.  It  was  his  philan 
thropic  theory. 

This  was  a  result  exceedingly  sad  to  contemplate, 
considering  that  it  had  been  mainly  brought  about  by 
the  very  ardor  and  exuberance  of  his  philanthropy. 
Sad,  indeed,  but  by  no  means  unusual.  He  had 
taught  his  benevolence  to  pour  its  warm  tide  exclusively 
through  one  channel ;  so  that  there  was  nothing  to  spare 
'  for  other  great  manifestations  of  love  to  man,  nor  scarceU 


68  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

for  the  nutiiment  of  individual  attacnments,  unless  they 
could  minister,  in  some  way,  to  the  terrible  egotism 
which  he  mistook  for  an  angel  of  God.  Had  Rollings- 
worth's  education  been  more  enlarged,  he  mighi  not  so 
inevitably  have  stumbled  into  this  pit-fall.  But  this 
identical  pursuit  had  educated  him.  He  knew  abSt. 
lutely  nothing,  except  in  a  single  direction,  where  he 
had  thought  so  energetically,  and  felt  to  such  a  depth, 
that,  no  doubt,  the  entire  reason  and  justice  of  the  urn 
verse  appeared  to  be  concentrated  thitherward. 

It  is  my  private  opinion  that,  at  this  period  of  his 
life  Hollingsworth  was  fast  going  mad  j  and,  as  with 
other  crazy  people  (among  whom  I  include  humorists 
of  every  degree),  it  required  all  the  constancy  of  friend 
ship  to  restrain  his  associates  from  pronouncing  run 
an  intolerable  bore.  Such  prolonged  fiddling  upon  or<e 
string,  — such  multiform  presentation  of  one  idea  !  His 
specific  object  (of  which  -he  made  the  public  more  than 
sufficiently  aware,  through  the  medium  of  lectures  and 
pamphlets)  was  to  obtain  funds  for  the  construction  of 
an  edifice,  with  a  sort  of  collegiate  endowment.  On 
this  foundation,  he  purposed  to  devote  himself  and  a 
fe>*v  disciples  to  the  reform  and  mental  culture  of  our 
criminal  brethren.  His  visionary  edifice  was  Hollings- 
worth's  one  castle  in  the  air ;  it  was  the  material  type 
in  which  his  philanthropic  dream  strove  to  embody 
itself;  and  he  made  the  scheme  more  definite,  and 
caught  hold  of  it  the  more  strongly,  and  kept  his  clutch 
tne  more  pertinaciously,  by  rendering  it  visible  to  the 
bodiiy  eye.  I  have  seen  him,  a  hundred  times,  with  a 
pencil  and  sheet  of  paper,  sketching  the  facade,  the  side 
'/iew,  or  the  rear  of  the  structure,  or  planning  the  inte/ 


FHE    CONVALESCENT.  63 

mil  arrangements,  as  lovingly  as  another  man  .might 
plan  thoise  of  the  projected  home  where  he  meant  to  be 
h>ippy  with  his  wife  and  children.  I  have  known  him 
to  hegin  a  model  of  the  building  with  little  stones, 
gathered  at  the  brook-side,  v,  hither  we  had  gone  to 
cool  ourselves  in  the  sultry  noon  of  haying-time.  Unlike 
all  other  ghosts,  his  spirit  haunted  an  edifice  which, 
instead  of  being  time-worn,  and  full  of  storied  love,  and 
joy,  and  sorrow,  had  never  yet  come  into  existence. 

"Dear  friend,"  said  I,  once,  to  Hollingsworth,  befoie 
leaving  my  sick-chamber,  "  I  heartily  wish  that  I  could 
make  your  schemes  my  schemes,  because  it  would  be  so 
great  a  happiness  to  find  myself  treading  the  same  path 
with  you.  But  I  am  afraid  th  .r  is  not  stuff  in  me 
stern  enough  for  a  philanthropist,  —  or  not  in  this 
peculiar  direction,  —  or,  ut  all  events,  not  solely  in  this. 
Can  you  bear  with  me,  if  such  should  prove  to  be  the 
case  ? " 

"  I  will,  at  least,  wait  a  while,"  answered  Hollings 
worth,  gazing  at  me  sternly  and  gloomily.  "  But  how 
can  you  be  my  life-long  friend,  except  you  strive  with 
me  towards  the  great  object  of  my  life  ?" 

Heaven  forgive  me !  A  horrible  suspicion  crept  into 
my  heart,  and  stung  the  very  core  of  it  as  with  the  fanga 
of  an  adder.  I  wondered  whether  it  were  possible  that 
Hollingsworth  could  have  watched  by  my  bed-side,  with 
all  that  devoted  care,  only  for  the  ulterior  purpose  of 
making  me  a  proselyte  to  his  v*ews ! 


VIII. 

A  MODERN  ARCADIA. 

MAY-DAY  —  I  forget  whether  by  Zenobia's  sole  decree, 
or  by  thv  unanimous  vote  of  our  Community — had  been 
declared  a  movable  festival.  It  was  deferred  until  the 
sun  should  have  had  a  reasonable  time  to  clear  away  the 
snow-drifts  along  the  lee  of  the  stone  walls,  and  bring 
out  a  few  of  the  readiest  wild-flowers.  On  the  forenoon 
of  the  substituted  da^ , .  "ter  admitting  some  of  the  balmy 
air  into  my  chamber,  I  deciJ°d  that  it  was  nonsense  and 
effeminacy  to  keep  myself  a  prisoner  any  longer.  So  1 
descended  to  the  sitting-room,  and  finding  nobody  there, 
proceeded  to  the  barn,  whence  I  had  already  heard 
Zenobia's  voice,  and  along  with  it  a  girlish  laugh,  which 
was  not  so  certainly  recognizable.  Arriving  at  the  spot 
it  a  little  surprised  me  to  discover  that  these  merry  out 
breaks  came  from  Priscilla. 

The  two  had  been  a  Maying  together.  They  had 
found  anemones  in  abundance,  housatonias  by  the  hand 
ful,  some  columbines,  a  few  long-stalked  violets,  and  a 
quantity  of  white  everlasting-flowers,  and  had  filled  up 
their  basket  with  the  delicate  spray  of  shrubs  and  trees. 
None  were  prettier  than  the  maple-twigs,  the  leaf  of 
which  looks  like  a  scarlet  bud  in  May,  and  like  a  plate 
of  vegetable  gold  in  October.  Zenobia,  who  si  owed  no 
jonscience  in  such  matters,  had  also  rifled  a  cherry-tree 
of  one  of  ife«  b  \ssomed  boughs,  and,  with  all  this  variety 


A   MODERN   ARCADIA.  7i 

bf  sylvan  ornament,  had  been  decking  out  Prise  ilia. 
Being  done  with  a  good  deal  of  taste,  it  made  her  look 
more  charming  than  I  should  have  thought  possible, 
with  my  recollection  ot  the  wan,  frost-nipt  girl,  as  here 
tofore  described.  Nevertheless,  among  those  fragrant 
blossoms,  and  conspicuously,  too,  had  been  stuck  a  weed 
of  evil  odor  and  ugly  aspect,  which,  as  soon  as  I 
detected  it,  destroyed  the  effect  of  all  the  rest.  There 
was  a  gleam  of  latent  mischief — not  to  call  it  deviltry  — 
in  Zenobia's  eye,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  slighily 
malicious  purpose  in  the  arrangement. 

As  for  herself,  she  scorned  the  rural  buds  and  leaflets, 
and  wore  nothing  but  her  invariable  flower  of  the 
tropics. 

"What  do  you  think  of  Priscilla  now,  Mr.  Cover- 
dab  ? "  asked  she,  surveying  her  as  a  child  does  its  doll. 
"  Is  not  she  worth  a  verse  or  two  ?  " 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  amiss,"  answered  I. 

Zenobia  laughed,  and  flung  the  malignant  weed  away. 

"  Yes  ;  she  deserves  some  verses  now,"  said  I,  "  and 
from  a  better  poet  than  myself.  She  is  the  very  picture 
of  the  New  England  spring ;  subdued  in  tint,  and  rather 
cool,  but  with  a  capacity  of  sunshine,  and  bringing  us  a 
few  Alpine  blossoms,  as  earnest  of  something  richer, 
though  hardly  more  beautiful,  hereafter.  The  best  type 
of  her  is  one  of  those  anemones." 

"  What  I  find  most  singular  in  Priscilla,  as  her  health 
improves."  observed  Zenobia,  "  is  her  wildness.  Such 
a  quiet  little  body  as  she  seemed,  one  would  not  have 
expected  that.  Why,  as  we  strolled  the  woods  together 

could  hardly  keep  her  from  scrambling  up  the  trees, 
like  a  squirrel  ?  She  has  never  before  known  what  it  is 


72  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

to  live  in  the  free  air,  and  so  it  intoxicates  ner  as  if  she 
were  sipping  wine.  And  she  thinks  it  such  a  paradise 
here,  and  all  of  us,  particularly  Mr.  Hollingsworth  and 
myself,  such  angels !  It  is  quite  ridiculous,  and  pro 
vokes  one's  malice  almost,  to  see  a  creature  so  happy, — 
especially  a  feminine  creature." 

"  They  are    always    happier   than    male   creatures, 
•iaidl. 

"  You  must  correct  that  opinion,  Mr.  Coverdale," 
replied  Zenobia,  contemptuously,  "  or  I  shall  think  you 
lack  the  poetic  insight.  Did  you  ever  see  a  happy 
woman  in  your  life  ?  Of  course,  1  do  not  mean  a  girl, 
like  Priscilla,  and  a  thousand  others,  —  for  they  are  aU 
alike,  while  on  the  sunny  side  of  experience,  —  but  a 
grown  woman.  How  can  she  be  happy,  after  discover 
ing  that  fate  has  assigned  her  but  one  single  event, 
which  she  must  contrive  to  make  the  substance  of  her 
whole  life  ?  A  man  has  his  choice  of  innumerable 
events." 

"A  woman,  I  suppose,"  answered  I,  "by  constant 
repetition  of  her  one  event,  may  compensate  for  the  lack 
of  variety." 

"Indeed!"  said  Zenobia. 

While  we  were  talking,  Priscilla  caught  sight  of 
Hollingsworth,  at  a  distance,  in  a  blue  frock,  and  with  a 
hoe  over  his  shoulder,  returning  from  the  field.  She 
immediately  set  out  to  meet  him,  running  and  skipping, 
with  spirits  as  light  as  the  breeze  of  the  May  morning 
but  with  limbs  too  little  exercised  to  be  quite  responsive , 
she  clapped  her  hands,  too,  with  great  exuberance  cf 
gesture,  as  is  the  custom  of  young  girls  when  theii 
slectricity  overcharges  them.  But,  all  at  once,  midwuj 


A   MODERN    ARCADIA.  7S 

to  Hollingb  worth,  she  paused,  looked  round  about  her, 
towards  thj  river,  the  road,  the  woods,  and  back  towards 
us,  appearing  to  listen,  as  if  she  heard  some  one  calling 
her  name,  and  knew  not  precisely  in  what  direction. 

"  Have  you  bewitched  her  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"It  is  no  sorcery  of  mine,"  said  Zenobia;  "but  I 
have  seen  the  girl  do  that  identical  thing  once  or  twice 
before.  Can  you  imagine  what  is  the  matter  with  her  ? '' 

"No;  unless,"  said  I,  "she  has  the  gift  of  hearing 
those  *  ai/y  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names,'  which 
Milton  tells  about," 

From  whatever  cause,  Priscilla's  animation  seemed 
entirely  to  have  deserted  her.  She  seated  herself  on  a 
rock,  and  remained  there  until  Hollingsworth  came  up ; 
and  when  he  took  her  hand  and  led  her  back  to  us',  she 
rather  resembled  my  original  image  of  the  wan  and* 
spiritless  Priscilla  than  the  flowery  May-queen  of  a 
!ew  moments  ago.  These  sudden  transformations,  only 
to  be  accounted  for  by  an  extreme  nervous  susceptibil 
ity,  always  continued  to  characterize  the  girl,  though 
with  diminished  frequency  as  her  health  progressively 
grew  more  robust. 

I  was  now  on  my  legs  again.  My  fit  of  illness  had 
been  an  avenue  between  two  existences ;  the  low-arched 
»ind  darksome  doorway,  through  which  I  crept  out  of  a 
life  of  old  conventionalisms,  on  my  hands  and  knees,  as 
it  were,  and  gained  admittance  into  the  freer  region  that 
lay  beyond.  In  this  respect,  it  was  like  death.  And, 
RS  with  death,  too,  it  was  good  to  have  gone  through  it. 
No  otherwise  could  I  have  rid  myself  of  a  thousand  fol- 
'ies,  fripperies,  prejudices,  habits, and  other  such  worldly 
dust  as  in  *viiably  settles  unon  the  crowd  along  the  broad 


74  1UE    B1".,!  HE  DALE    ROMANCK. 

highway,  giving  them  all  «ne  sordid  aspect  beiore  noon 
time,  however  freshly  the}  may  have  begun  the*!  pil 
grimage  in  the  dewy  morning.  The  very  substance 
upon  my  bones  had  not  been  fit  to  live  with  in  any  bet 
ter,  truer,  or  more  energetic  mode  than  that  to  which  i 
was  accustomed.  So  it  was  taken  off  me  and  flung 
aside,  like  any  other  worn-out  or  unseasonable  garment ; 
and,  after  shivering  a  little  while  in  my  skeleton,  I  begun 
to  be  clothed  anew,  and  much  more  satisfactorily  than 
in  my  previous  suit.  In  literal  and  physical  truth,  I  was 
quite  another  man.  I  had  a  lively  sense  of  the  exulta 
tion  with  which  the  spirit  will  enter  on  the  next  r.tage 
of  its  eternal  progress,  after  leaving  the  heavy  burthen 
of  its  mortality  in  an  earthly  grave,  with  as  little  con 
cern  for  what  may  become  of  it  as  now  affected  me  for 
ih'e  flesh  which  I  had  lost. 

Emerging  into  the  genial  sunshine,  I  half  fancied  that 
the  labors  of  the  brotherhood  had  already  realized  some 
of  Fourier's  predictions.  Their  enlightened  culture  of 
the  soil,  and  the  virtues  with  which  they  sanctified  their 
life,  had  begun  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  materia. 
world  and  its  climate.  In  my  new  enthusiasm,  man 
looked  strong  and  stately,  —  and  woman,  0  how  beauti 
ful! —  and  the  earth  a  green  garden,  blossoming  with 
many-colored  delights.  Thus  Nature,  whose  laws  I  had 
broker  in  various  artificial  ways,  comported  herself 
towards  me  as  a  strict  but  loving  mother,  who  uses  the 
rod  upor,  her  little  boy  for  his  naughtiness,  and  then 
gives  him  a  smile,  a  kiss,  and  some  pretty  plaything.? 
to  console  the  urchin  for  her  severity. 

In  the  interval  of  my  seclusion,  there  had  been  a  num 
oer  if  recruits  to  our  little  army  of  saint?  anl  maityii 


A    MODERN    ARCADIA.  75 

The)  were  mostly  individuals  who  had  gone  through 
such  an  experience  as  to  disgust  them  with  ordinary 
pursuits,  but  who  were  not  yet  so  old,  nor  had  suffered 
so  decj  ly,  as  to  lose  their  faith  in  the  better  time  to 
come.  On  comparing  their  minds  one  with  another 
they  often  discovered  that  this  idea  of  a  Community  had 
been  growing  up,  in  silent  and  unknown  sympathy,  for 
years.  Thoughtful,  strongly-lined  faces  were  among 
them  ;  sombre  brows,  but  eyes  that  did  not  require  spec 
tacles,  unless  prematurely  dimmed  by  the  student's 
lamplight,  and  hair  that  seldom  showed  a  thread  of  sil 
ver.  Age,  wedded  to  the  past,  incrusted  over  with  a 
stony  layer  of  habits,  and  retaining  nothing  fluid  in  its 
possibilities,  would  have  been  absurdly  out  of  place  in 
an  enterprise  like  this.  Youth,  too,  in  its  early  dawn, 
was  hardly  more  adapted  to  our  purpose ;  for  it  would 
behold  the  morning  radiance  of  its  own  spirit  beaming 
over  the  very  same  spots  of  withered  grass  and  barren 
sand  whence  most  of  us  had  seen  it  vanish.  We  had 
very  young  people  with  us,  it  is  true,  —  downy  lads, 
rosy  girls  in  their  first  teens,  and  children  of  all  heights 
above  one's  knee  ;  —  but  these  had  chiefly  been  sent 
Hither  for  education,  which  it  was  one  of  the  objects  and 
methods  of  our,  institution  to  supply.  Then  we  had 
boarders,  from  town  and  elsewhere,  who  lived  with  us  in 
a  familiar  way,  sympathized  more  or  less  in  our  theo 
ries,  and  sometimes  shared  in  our  labors. 

On  the  whole,  it  was  a  society  such  as  has  seldom  met 
together;  nor,  perhaps,  could  it  reasonably  be  expected 
io  hold  together  long.  Persons  of  marked  individuality 
—  crooked  sticks,  as  some  of  us  might  be  called  —  nro 
not  exactly  the  easiest  to  bind  up  into  a  fagot.  But,  an 


T6  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

long  as  our  union  should  subsist,  a  man  ol  intellect  and 
feeling,  with  a  free  nature  in  hirri,might  have  sought  fai 
^nd  near  without  finding  so  many  points  of  attraction 
as  would  allure  him  hitherward.  We  were  of  all  creeds 
and  opinion?,  and  generally  tolerant  of  all,  on  every  im 
aginable  subject.  Our  bond,  it  seems  to  me,  was  not 
affirmative,  but  negative.  We  had  individually  found 
one  thing  or  another  to  quarrel  with  in  our  past  life,  and 
were  pretty  well  agreed  as  to  the  inexpediency  of  lum 
bering  along  with  the  old  system  any  further.  As  to 
what  should  be  substituted,  there  was  much  less  una 
nimity.  We  did  not  greatly  care  —  at  least,  I  never 
did  —  for  the  written  constitution  under  which  our  mil 
lennium  had  commenced.  My  hope  was,  that,  between 
theory  and  practice,  a  true  and  available  mode  of  life 
might  be  struck  out;  and  that,  even  should  we  ulti 
mately  fail,  the  months  or  years  spent  in  the  trial  would 
not  have  been  wasted,  either  as  regarded  passing  en 
joyment,  or  the  experience  which  makes  men  wise. 

Arcadians  though  we  were,  our  costume  bore  LO 
resemblance  to  the  be-ribboned  doublets,  silk  breeches 
and  stockings,  and  slippers  fastened  with  artificial  roses, 
that  distinguish  the  pastoral  people  of  poetry  and  the 
stage.  In  outward  show,  I  humbly  conceive,  we  looked 
rather  like  a  gang  of  beggars,  or  banditti,  than  either  a 
company  ot  honest  laboring  men,  or  a  conclave  of  philos 
ophers.  Whatever  might  be  our  points  of  difference,  we 
all  of  us  seemed  to  have  come  toBlithedale  with  the  one 
thrifty  and  laudable  idea  of  wearing  out  our  old  clothes 
Such  garments  as  had  an  airing,  whenever  we  strode 
u-iield  !  Coats  with  high  collars  and  with  no  collars 
broad- skirted  or  swallow-tailed,  and  with  *he  waist  a 


A    MODERN    AliCADlA.  77 

ever>'  point  between  the  hip  and  armpit;  pantaloons  of 
a  dozen  successive  epochs,  and  greatly  defaced  at  the 
knees  by  the  humiliations  of  the  wearer  before  his  lady 
love  ;  —  in  short,  we  were  a  living  epitome  of  defunct 
fashions,  and  the  very  raggedest  presentment  of  men 
who  had  seen  better  days.  It  was  gentility  in  tatters. 
Often  retainirg  a  scholarlike  or  clerical  air,  you  might 
have  taken  us  for  the  denizens  of  Grub-street,  intent  on 
getting  a  comfortable  livelihood  by  agricultural  labor;  or, 
Coleridge's  projected  Pantisocracy  in  full  experiment; 
or,  Candide  and  his  motley  associates,  at  work  in  thoir 
cabbage-garden ;  or  anything  else  that  was  miserably  out 
at  elbows,  and  most  clumsily  patched  in  the  rear.  We 
might  have  been  sworn  comrades  to  Falstaff's  ragged 
regiment.  Little  skill  as  we  boasted  in  other  points  of 
husbandry  every  mother's  son  of  us  would  have  served 
admirably  to  stick  up  for  a  scarecrow.  And  the  worst 
of  the  matter  was,  that  the  first  energetic  movement 
essential  to  one  downright  stroke  of  real  labor  was  sure 
to  put  a  finish  to  these  poor  habiliments.  So  we  grad 
ually  flung  them  all  aside,  and  took  to  honest  homespun 
and  linsey-woolsey,  as  preferable,  on  the  whole,  to  the 
plan  recommended,  I  think,  by  Virgil,  —  "  Ara  nudus  ; 
sere  nudus"  —  which,  as  Silas  Foster  remarked,  when  I 
translated  the  maxim,  would  be  apt  to  astonish  the 
women-folks. 

After  a  reasonable  training,  the  yeoman  life  throve 
well  with  us.  Our  faces  took  the  sunburn  kindly  ;  our 
chests  gained  in  compass,  and  our  shoulders  in  breadth 
and  squareness ;  our  great  brown  fists  looked  as  if  they 
had  never  been  capable  of  kid  gloves.  The  plough,  the 
hoe,  the  scythe,  and  the  t  ay-fork,  grew  familiar  to  oiu 


78  THE    BL1THEDALE    ROMANCE. 

grasp  The  oxen  responded  to  our  voices.  We  c 
do  almost  as  fair  a  day's  work  as  Silas  Foster  himself 
sleep  dreamlessly  after  it,  and  awake  at  daybreak  with 
only  a  little  stiffness  of  the  joints,  which  was  usually 
quite  gone  by  breakfast-time. 

To  be  sure,  our  next  neighbors  pretended  to  be  incred- 
uicus  as  to  our  real  proficiency  in  the  business  whHi  we 
had  taken  in  hand.  They  told  slanderous  fables  about  our 
inability  to  yoke  our  own  oxen,  or  to  drive  them  a-field 
when  yoked,  or  to  release  the  poor  brutes  from  their  con 
jugal  bond  at  night-fall.  They  had  the  face  to  say,  too, 
that  the  cows  laughed  at  our  awkwardness  at  milking- 
time,  and  invariably  kicked  over  the  pails  ;  partly  in  con 
sequence  of  our  putting  the  stool  on  the  wrong  side,  and 
partly  because,  taking  offence  at  the  whisking  of  their 
tails,  we  were  in  the  habit  of  holding  these  natural  fly- 
flappers  with  one  hand,  and  milking  with  the  other. 
They  further  averred  that  we  hoed  up  whole  acres  of 
Indian  corn  and  other  crops,  and  drew  the  earth  care 
fully  about  the  weeds  ;  and  that  we  raised  five  hundred 
tufts  of  burdock,  mistaking  them  for  cabbages  ;  and  that, 
by  dint  of  unskilful  planting,  few  of  our  seeds  ever  came 
up  at  all,  or,  if  they  did  come  up,  it  was  stern-foremost ; 
and  that  we  spent  the  better  part  of  the  month  c-f  June 
in  reversing  a  field  of  beans,  which  had  thrust  them 
selves  out  of  the  ground  in  this  unseemly  way.  They 
quoted  it  as  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  occurrence 
for  one  or  other  of  us  to  crop  off  two  or  three  fingers,  of 
a  morning,  by  our  clumsy  use  of  the  hay-cutter.  Finally 
and  as  an  ultimate  catastrophe,  these  mendacious  rogues 
circulated  a  report  that  we  communitarians  were  exter 
minated,  to  the  last  man,  by  severing  ourselves  asundei 


A   MODERN    ARCADIA.  TD 

frith  the  sweep  of  our  own  scythes  !  —  and  that  the  world 
had  lost  nothing  by  this  little  accident. 

But  this  was  pur<?  envy  and  malice  on  the  part  of  the 
neighboring  farmers.  The  peril  of  our  new  way  of  life 
was  not  lest  we  should  fail  in  becoming  practical  agri 
culturists,  but  that  we  should  probably  cease  to  be  any 
thing  else.  While  our  enterprise  lay  all  in  theory, 
we  had  pleased  ourselves  with  delectable  visions  of  the 
spiritualization  of  labor.  It  was  to  be  our  form  of 
prayer  and  ceremonial  of  worship.  Each  stroke  of  the 
hoe  was  to  uncover  some  aromatic  root  of  wisdom,  here 
tofore  hidden  from  the  sun.  Pausing  in  the  field,  to  let 
the  wind  exhale  the  moisture  from  our  foreheads,  \vc 
were  to  look  upward,  and  catch  glimpses  into  the  far-off 
soul  of  truth.  In  this  point  of  view,  matters  did  not  turn 
out  quite  so  well  as  we  anticipated.  It  is  very  true  that, 
sometimes,  gazing  casually  around  me,  out  of  the  midst 
of  rny  toil,  I  used  to  discern  a  richer  picturesqueness  in 
the  visible  scene  of  earth  and  sky.  There  was,  at  such 
moments,  a  novelty,  an  unwonted  aspect,  on  the  face  of 
Nature,  as  if  she  had  been  taken  by  surprise  and  seen  at 
unawares,  with  no  opportunity  to  put  off  her  real  look, 
and  assume  the  mask  with  which  she  mysteriously  hides 
herself  from  mortals.  But  this  was  all.  The  clods  of 
earth,  which  we  so  constantly  belabored  and  turned 
over  and  over,  were  never  ethereaiized  into  thought.  Oui 
thoughts,  on  the  contrary,  were  fast  becoming  cloddish. 
Our  labor  symbolized  nothing,  and  left  us  mental*  y 
sluggish  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening.  Intellectual  activity 
is  incompatible  with  any  large  amount  of  bodily  exer 
cise.  The  yeoman  and  the  scholar  —  the  yeoman  and 
tin  man  of  finest  moral  cu.ture,  though  not  the  man  of 


SO  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

sturdiest  sense  and  integrity  —  are  two  distinct  indi 
viduals,  and  can  never  be  melted  or  welded  into  one 
substance. 

Zenobia.  soon  saw  this  truth,  and  gibed  me  about  it, 
one  evening,  as  Horingsworth  and  I  l?iy  on  the  grass, 
after  a  hard  day's  wonc. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  did  not  make  a  song,  lo-day,  while 
loading  the  hay-cart,"  said  she,  "  as  Burns  did,  when  he 
was  reaping  barley." 

"  Burns  never  made  a  song  in  haying-time,"  I  an 
swered,  very  positively.  "  He  was  no  poet  while  a 
farmer,  and  no  farmer  while  a  poet." 

"  And,  on  the  whole,  which  of  the  two  characters  do 
you  like  best  ?  "  asked  Zenobia.  "  For  I  have  an  idea 
that  you  cannot  combine  them  any  better  than  Burns 
did.  Ah,  I  see,  in  my  mind's  eye,  what  sort  of  an 
individual  you  are  to  be,  two  or  three  years  hence. 
Grim  Silas  Foster  is  your  prototype,  with  his  palm 
of  sole-leather  and  his  joints  of  rusty  iron  (which  all 
through  summer  keep  the  stiffness  of  what  he  calk 
his  winter's  rheumatize),  and  his  brain  of — I  don't 
know  what  his  brain  is  made  of,  unless  it  be  a  Savoy 
cabbage ;  but  yours  may  be  cauliflower,  as  a  rather 
more  delicate  variety.  Your  physical  man  will  be  trans 
muted  into  salt  beef  and  fried  pork,  at  the  rate,  ^  should 
imagine,  of  a  pound  and  a  half  a  day;  that  being 
about  the  average  which  we  find  necessary  in  the 
Kitchen.  You  will  make  your  toilet  for  the  day  (still 
'ike  this  delightful  Silas  Foster)  by  rinsing  your  fingers 
and  the  front  part  of  your  face  in  a  little  tin-pan  of  watei 
at  the  door-step,  an  1  teasing  your  hair  with  a  wooden 
pocketomb  befc  re  a  seven-by-nine-inch  lookiug-glasi 


A    MODERN    ARCADIA.  81 

Voui   only  pastime  will  be   to   smoke  some   very  ?:!€ 
tobacco  in  the  black  stump  of  a  pipe." 

"  Pray,  spare  me  !  "  cried  I.  "  But  the  pipe  is  not 
Silas's  only  mode  of  solacing  himself  with  the  weed." 

"  Your  literature,"  continued  Zenobia,  apparently  de 
lighted  with  her  description,  "  will  be  the  Farmer's 
Almanac  ;  for  I  observe  our  friend  Foster  never  gets  so 
far  as  the  newspaper.  When  you  happen  to  sit  down, 
at  odd  moments,  you  will  fall  asleep,  and  make  nasal 
proclamation  of  the  fact,  as  he  does ;  and  invariably  you 
must  be  jogged  out  of  a  nap,  after  supper,  by  the  future 
Mrs.  Coverdale,  and  persuaded  to  go  regularly  to  bed. 
And  on  Sundays,  when  you  put  on  a  blue  coat  with 
brass  buttons,  you  will  think  of  nothing  else  to  do,  but  to 
go  and  lounge  over  the  stone  walls  and  rail  fences,  and 
stare  at  the  corn  growing.  And  you  will  look  with  a  know 
ing  eye  at  oxen,  and  will  have  a  tendency  to  clamber 
Dver  into  pig-sties,  and  feel  of  the  hogs,  and  give  a  guess 
now  much  they  will  weigh  after  you  shall  have  stuck 
and  dressed  them.  Already  I  have  noticed  you  begin 
to  speak  through  your  nose,  and  with  a  drawl.  Pray,  if 
you  really  did  make  any  poetry  to-day,  let  us  hear  it 
in  that  kind  of  utterance  !  " 

•*  Coverdale  has  given  up  making  verses  now,"  said 
Rollings  worth,  who  never  had  the  slightest  appreciation 
of  my  poetry.  "  Just  think  of  him  penning  a  sonnet 
witn  a  fist  like  that !  There  is  at  least  this  good  in  a 
life  of  toil,  that  it  takes  the  nonsense  and  fancy-work  out 
of  a  man,  and  leaves  nothing  but  what  truly  belongs  to 
him.  If  a  farmer  can  make  poetry  at  the  plough-tail,  it 
must  be  because  his  nature  insists  on  it;  ard  if  ibat  be 
the  case,  let  him  make  H  :n  Heaven's 
6 


62  THE    BI1THEDALE    ROMANCE. 

And  how  is  it  with  you  ? "  asked  Zenobia,  in  a  difc 
fercnt  voice ;  for  she  never  laughed  at  Hollingsworth, 
as  she  often  did  at  me.  "  You,  I  think,  cannot  have 
r.eased  to  live  a  life  cf  thought  and  feeling." 

"  I  have  always  been  in  earnest,"  answered  Holling? 
worth.  "  I  have  hammered  thought  out  of  iron,  aftoi 
heating  the  iron  in  my  heart !  It  matters  little  whn  * 
my  outward  toil  may  be.  Were  I  a  slave  at  the  bottom 
of  a  mine,  I  should  keep  the  same  purpose,  the  same 
faith  in  its  ultimate  accomplishment,  that  I  do  now. 
Miles  Coverdale  is  not  in  earnest,  either  as  9  poet  or  a 
laborer." 

"  You  give  me  hard  measure,  Hollingsworth,"  said 
I,  a  little  hurt.  "I  have  kept  pace  with  you  in  the  field; 
and  my  bones  feel  as  if  I  had  been  %in  earnest,  what- 
evei  may  be  the  case  with  my  brain ! " 

**  I  cannot  conceive,"  observed  Zenobia,  with  great 
emphasis,  —  and,  no  doubt,  she  spoke  fairly  the  feeling 
of  the  moment,  —  "I  cannot  conceive  of  being  so  con 
tinually  as  Mr.  Coverdale  is  within  the  sphere  of  a 
strong  and  noble  nature,  without  being  strengthened 
and  ennobled  by  its  influence  !" 

This  amiable  remark  of  the  fair  Zenobia  confirmed 
me  in  what  I  had  already  begun  to  suspect,  that  Hol 
lingsworth,  like  many  other  illustrious  prophets,  reform 
ers  and  philanthropists,  was  likely  to  make  at  least  two' 
proselytes  among  the'  women  to  one  among  the  men. 
Zenobia  and  Priscilla  !  These,  I  believe  (unlo-ss  my 
unworthy  self  might  be  reckoned  for  a  third),  were  the 
only  disciples  of  his  mission;  and  I  spent  a  great  deal  of 
time,  uselessly,  in  trying  to  conjecture  what  Holhng? 
worti  .^leant  to  do  with  them  —  and  they  with  him  ! 


IX. 

IIOLIINGSWORTB,  ZENOBIA,  PRISCILLA 

It  is  not,  I  apprehend,  a  healthy  kind  of  menta 
occupation,  to  devote  ourselves  too  exclusively  to  the 
study  of  individual  men  and  women.  If  the  person 
under  examination  be  one's  self,  the  result  is  pretty 
certain  to  be  diseased  action  of  the  heart,  almost  before 
we  can  snatch  a  second  glance.  Or,  if  we  take  the 
freedom  to  put  a  friend  under  our  microscope,  we 
tnereby  insulate  him  from  many  of  his  true  relations, 
magnify  his  peculiarities,  inevitably  tear  him  into  parts, 
and,  of  course,  patch  him  very  clumsily  together  again. 
What  wonder,  then,  should  we  be  frightened  by  the 
aspect  of  a  monster,  which,  after  all,  —  though  we  can 
point  to  every  feature  of  his  deformity  in  the  real  per 
sonage,  —  may  be  said  to  have  been  created  mainly  by 
ourselves. 

Thus,  as  my  conscience  has  often  whispered  me,  1 
did  Hollingsworth  a  great  wrong  by  prying  into  his 
character ;  and  am  perhaps  doing  him  as  great  a  one,  at 
this  moment,  by  putting  faith  in  the  discoveries  which  I 
seemed  to  make.  But  I  could  not  help  it.  Had  I  loved 
him  less,  I  might  have  used  him  better.  He  —  and 
Zenobia  and  Priscilla,  both  for  their  own  sakes  and  as 
eonnt- jted  with  him  —  were  separated  from  the  rest  of 
the  Community,  to  my  imagination,  and  stood  forth  as 
the  indices  of  a  problem  which  it  was  my  business  to 


54  THE    BLiiHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

solve.  Other  associates  had  a  portion  of  my  time , 
other  matters  amused  me ;  passing  occurrences  carried 
me  along  with  them,  while  they  lasted.  But  here  wa? 
the  vortex  of  my  meditations  around  which  they 
revolved,  and  whitherward  they  too  continually  tended, 
In  the  midst  :f  cheerful  society,  I  had  often  a  feeling 
){  loneliness.  For  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  sensible 
that,  while  these  three  characters  figured  so  largely  on 
my  private  theatre,  I  —  though  probably  reckoned  as  a 
friend  by  all  —  was  at  best  but  a  secondary  or  tertiary 
personage  with  either  of  them. 

I  loved  HolKngsworth,  as  has  already  been  enough 
expressed.  But  it  impressed  me,  more  and  more,  tha* 
there  was  a  stern  and  dreadful  peculiarity  in  this  man, 
such  as  could  not  prove  otherwise  than  pernicious  to 
the  happiness  of  those  who  should  be  drawn  into  too 
intimate  a  connection  with  him.  He  was  not  altogether 
human.  There  was  something  else  in  Holl  ings  worth 
besides  flesh  and  blood,  and  sympathies  and  affections 
and  celestial  spirit. 

This  is  always  true  of  those  men  wh  •»  have  surren 
dered  themselves  to  an  overruling  purpose.  It  does 
not  so  much  impel  them  from  without,  nor  even  operate 
as  a  motive  power  within,  but  grows  incorporate  with 
all  that  they  think  and  feel,  and  finally  converts  them 
into  little  else  save  that  one  principle.  When  such 
•xjgins  to  be  the  predicament,  it  is  not  coYf?.rdice,  bw 
wisdom,  to  avoid  these  victims.  They  have  no  heart 
no  sympathy,  no  reason,  no  conscience.  They  uii; 
k^ep  no  friend,  unless  he  make  himself  the  mirror  ot 
thur  purpose  ;  they  will  smite  and  slay  you,  and  tramok 
your  dead  Corpse  under  foot,  all  the  more  readily,  if  yov 


UOLLINGi, WORTH,    2.ENOBIA,    PRISCILLA.  85 

(he  first  step  with  them,  and  cannot  take  the 
iil,  and  the  third,  and  every  other  step  of  their  ter 
ribly  straight  path.  They  have  an  idol,  to  which  they 
const  crate  themselves,  high-priest,  and  deem  it  holy  work 
to  ofier  sacrifices  of  whatever  is  most  precious ;  and  nevei 
once  seem  to  suspect  —  so  cunning  has  the  devil  been 
with  them  —  that  this  false  deity,  in  whose  iron  features, 
immitigable  to  all  the  rest  of  mankind,  they  see  only 
benignity  and  love,  is  but  a  spectrum  of  the  very  priest 
himself,  projected  upon  the  surrounding  darkness.  And 
the  higher  and  purer  the  original  object,  and  the  more 
unselfishly  it  may  have  been  taken  up,  the  slighter  is 
the  probability  that  they  can  be  led  to  recognize  the  pro 
cess  by  which  godlike  benevolence  has  been  debased 
"\nto  all-devouring  egotism. 

Of  course,  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  the  above  state 
ment  is  exaggerated,  in  the  attempt  to  make  it  adequate. 
Professed  philanthropists  have  gone  far ;  but  no  origin 
ally  good  man,  I  presume,  ever  went  quite  so  far  as 
this.  Let  the  reader  abate  whatever  he  deems  fit.  The 
paragraph  may  remain,  however,  both  for  its  truth  and 
its  exaggeration,  as  strongly  expressive  of  the  tendencies 
which  were  really  operative  in  Hollingsworth,  and  as 
exemplifying  the  kind  of  error  into  which  my  mode  of 
observation  was  calculated  to  lead  me.  The  issue  was, 
that  in  solitude  I  often  shuddered  at  my  friend.  In  my 
recollection  of  his  dark  and  impressive  countenance,  the 
features  grew  more  sternly  prominent  than  the  reality 
duskier  in  their  depth  and  shalow.  and  more  lurid  in 
tntir  tight ;  the  frown,  that  had  merely  flitted  across  his 
brow,  .-eeined  to  have  contorted  it  with  an  adamantine 
wrinkle.  On  meeting  him  again,  I  was  often  filled  with 


THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

remorse,  when  his  deep  eyes  beamed  kindly  upon  me,  at 
with  the  glow  of  a  household  fire  that  was  bun.  ing  in  a 
cave.  He  is  a  man,  after  all,"  thought  I ;  "  his  Mak 
er's  own  truest  image,  a  philanthropic  man !  —  not  that 
steel  engine  of  the  devil's  contrivance,  a  philanthropist !  " 
But  in  my  wood-walks,  and  in  my  silent  c}  amber,  tl  » 
dark  face  frowned  at  me  again. 

When  a  young  girl  comes  within  the  sphere  of  such  a 
manv  she  is  as  perilously  situated  as  the  maiden  whom, 
in  the  old  classical  myths,  the  people  used  to  expose  to  a 
iragon.  If  I  had  any  duty  whatever,  m  reference  to 
Hollingsworth,  it  was  to  endeavor  to  save  Priscilla  from 
that  kind  of  personal  worship  which  her  sex  is  generally 
prone  to  lavish  upon  saints  and  heroes.  It  often  requires 
but  one  smile  out  of  the  hero's  eyes  into  the  girl's  or 
woman's  heart,  to  transform  this  devotion,  from  a,  senti 
ment  of  the  highest  approval  and  confidence,  into  pas 
sionate  love.  Now,  Hollingsworth  smiled  much  upon 
Priscilla,  —  more  than  upon  any  other  person.  If  she 
thought  him  beautiful,  it  was  no  wonder.  I  often 
thought  him  so,  with  the  expression  of  tender  human 
care  and  gentlest  sympathy  which  she  alone  seemed  to 
have  power  to  call  out  upon  his  features.  Zenobia,  1 
suspect,  would  have  given  her  eyes,  bright  as  they  were, 
foi  fcuchalook;  —  it  was  the  least  that  our  poor  Pris- 
ciila  could  do,  to  give  her  heart  for  a  great  many  of 
them.  There  was  the  more  danger  of  this,  inasmuch  as 
the  footing  on  which  we  all  associated  at  BUthedale  was 
widely  different  from  that  of  conventional  society. 
While  inclining  us  to  the  soft  affections  of  the  golden 
afce,  it  seemed  to  authorize  any  individual,  of  either  sex 
to  fall  m  love  with  any  other,  regardless  of  what  would 


COLL1NGSWORTH,    ZENOBIA,    PRISCILLA.  R1 

elsewhere  be.  judged  suitable  and  prudent.  Accordingly 
tiie  tender  passion  was  very  rife  among  us,  in  various 
degree-  of  mildness  or  virulence,  but  mostly  passing 
away  v  ith  the  state  of  things  that  had  given  it  origin. 
This  vras  all  well  enough  ;  but,  for  a  girl  like  Priscilla 
and  a  woman  like  Zenobia  to  jostle  one  another  in  theii 
love  of  a  man  like  Hollingsworth,  was  likely  to  be  no 
child's  play. 

Had  I  been  as  cold-hearted  as  I  sometimes  thought 
myself,  nothing  would  have  interested  me  more  than  to 
witness  the  play  of  passions  that  mu^t  thus  have  been 
evolved.  But,  in  honest  truth,  I  would  really  have  gone 
far  to  save  Priscilla,  at  least,  from  the  catastrophe  in 
which  such  a  drama  would  be  apt  to  terminate. 

Priscilla  had  now  grown  to  be  a  very  pretty  girl,  and 
still  kept  budding  and  blossoming,  and  daily  putting  on 
some  new  charm,  which  you  no  sooner  became  sensible 
of  than  you  thought  it  worth  all  that  she  had  previously 
possessed.  So  unformed,  vague,  and  without  substance, 
as  she  had  come  to  us,  it  seemed  as  if  we  could  see 
Nature  shaping  out  a  woman  before  our  very  eyes,  and 
yet  had  only  a  more  reverential  sense  of  the  mystery  of 
a  woman's  soul  and  frame.  Yesterday,  her  cheek  was 
pale,  — to-day,  it  had  a  bloom.  Priscilla's  smile,  like  a 
baby's  first  one,  was  a  wondrous  novelty.  Her  imperfec 
tions  and  short-comings  affected  me  with  a  kind  of  playful 
pathos,  which  was  as  absolutely  bewitching  a  sensation 
as  ever  I  experienced.  After  she  had  been  a  month  or 
twr  at  Blithedale,  her  animal  spirits  waxed  high,  and 
kept  <ier  pretty  constantly  in  a  state  of  bubble  and  fer 
ment,  impelling  her  to  far  more  bodily  activity  than  she 
tad  yet  strength  to  endure.  She  was  very  fond  of  ph  v 


SS  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMAN  CB. 

ing  with  the  other  girls  out  of  doors.  There  is  hardly 
another  sight  in  the  world  so  pretty  as  that  of  a  com 
pany  of  young  girls,  almost  women  grown,  at  play,  and 
so  giving  themselves  up  to  their  airy  impulse  that  theil 
tiptoes  barely  touch  the  ground. 

Girls  are  incomparably  wilder  and  more  effervescent 
than  boys,  more  untamable,  and  regardless  of  rule  and 
limit,  with  an  ever-shifting  variety,  breaking  continually 
into  new  modes  of  fun,  yet  with  a  harmonious  propriety 
through  all.  Their  steps,  their  voices,  appear  free  as 
the  wind,  but  keep  consonance  with  a  strain  of  music 
inaudible  to  us.  Young  men  and  boys,  on  the  othov 
nand,  play,  according  to  recognized  law,  old,  tradition 
ary  games,  permitting  no  caprioles  of  fancy,  but  with 
scope  enough  for  the  outbreak  of  savage  instincts.  For. 
young  or  old,  in  play  or  in  earnest,  man  is  prone  Jo  be 
a  brute. 

Especially  is  it  delightful  to  see  a  vigorous  young  girl 
run  a  race,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  limbs  mov 
ing  more  friskily  than  they  need,  and  an  air  between  that 
of  a  bird  and  a  young  colt.  But  Priscilla's  peculiar 
^harrn,  in  a  foot-race,  was  the  weakness  and  irregularity 
with  which  she  ran.  Growing  up  without  exercise, 
except  to  her  poor  little  fingers,  she  had  ne^er  yet 
acquired  the  perfect  use  of  her  legs.  Setting  buoyantly 
brth,  therefore,  as  if  no  rival  less  swift  than  Atalanta 
could  compete  with  her,  she  ran  falteringly,  and  often 
tumbled  on  the  grass.  Such  an  incident — though  i« 
seems  too  slight  to  think  of — was  a  thing  to  laugh  at 
but  which  brought  the  water  into  one's  eyes,  and  lingered 
'in  the  memory  after  far  greater  joys  and  sorrows  were 
wept  out  of  it,  as  antiquated  traih.  Prisciila's  life,  a. 


HOLLINGSWORTH,    ZENOBIA,   PRISCILLA.  89 

I  beheld  it,  was  full  of  trifles  that  affected  me  in  just  this 
way. 

When  she  had  come  to  be  quite  at  home  among  us, 
I  used  to  fancy  that  Priscilla  played  more  pranks,  and 
perpetrated  more  mischief,  than  any  other  girl  in  the 
Community.  For  example,  I  once  heard  Silas  Foster, 
in  a  very  gruff  voice,  threatening  to  rivet  three  horse 
shoes  round  Priscilla's  neck  and  chain  her  to  a  post, 
because  she,  with  some  other  young  people,  had  clam 
bered  upon  a  load  of  hay,  and  caused  it  to  slide  off  the 
cart.  How  she  made  her  peace  I  never  knew  ;  but  very 
soon  afterwards  I  saw  old  Silas,  with  his  brawny  hands 
round  Priscilla's  waist,  swinging  her  to  and  fro,  and 
finally  depositing  her  on  one  of  the  oxen,  to  take  her 
first  lessons  in  riding.  She  met  jvith  terrible  mishaps 
in  her  efforts  to  milk  a  cow  ;  she  let  the  poultry  into  the 
garden  ;  she  generally  spoilt  whatever  part  of  the  dinner 
she  took  in  charge ;  she  broke  crockery ;  she  dropt  our 
biggest  pitcher  into  the  well;  and  —  except  with  her 
needle,  and  those  little  wooden  instruments  for  purse- 
making —  was  as  unserviceable  a  member  of  society  as 
any  young  lady  in  the  land.  There  was  no  other  sort 
of  efficiency  about  her.  Yet  everybody  was  kind  to 
Priscilla ,  everybody  loved  her  and  laughed  at  her  to  her 
face,  and  did  not  laugh  behind  her  back ;  everybody 
would  have  given  her  half  of  his  last  crust,  or  the  bigger 
share  of  his  plum-cake.  These  were  pretty  certain  indi 
cations  that  we  were  all  conscious  of  a  pleasant  weak 
ness  in  the  girl,  and  considered  her  not  quite  able  to 
look  after  her  own  interests,  or  fight  her  battle  with  the 
world.  And  Hollingsworth  —  perhaps  because  he  had 
been  the  means  of  introducing  Priscilla  to  her  new 


90  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

abode -- appeared  to  recognize  her  as  his  >wn  especial 
Charge. 

Her  simple,  careless,  childish  flow  of  spirits  often 
made  me  sad.  She  seemed  to  me  like  a  butterfly  at 
play  in  a  flickering  bit  of  sunshine,  and  Mistaking  it  for 
A  broad  and  eternal  summer.  We  sometimes  hold  mirth 
to  a  stricter  accountability  than  sorrow ;  —  it  must  shov« 
good  cause,  or  the  echo  of  its  laughter  comes  back 
drearily.  Priscilla's  gayety,  moreover,  was  of  a  nature 
that  showed  me  how  delicate  an  instrument  she  was 
and  what  fragile  harp-strings  were  her  nerves.  As  they 
made  sweet  music  a*  the  airiest  touch,  it  would  require 
but  a  stronger  one  to  burst  them  all  asunder.  Absurd 
as  it  might  be,  1  tried  to  reason  with  her,  and  persuade 
her  not  to  be  so  joyofts,  thinking  that,  if  she  would  draw 
less  lavishly  upon  her  fund  of  happiness,  it  would  last 
the  longer.  I  remember  doing  so,  one  summer  evening, 
when  we  tired  laborers  sat  looking  on,  like  Goldsmith's 
old  folks  under  the  villags  thorn-tree,  while  the  young 
people  were  at  thek  sport  j. 

"  What  is  the  use  or  sense  }f  being  so  very  gay  ? "  I 
s.iid  to  Priscilla,  while  she  was  taking  breath,  after  a 
great  frolic.  "  I  love  tc  ;ee  a  sufficif  nt  cause  for  every 
thing  ;  and  I  can  see  none  for  this.  Pray  tell  me,  now, 
vhat  kind  of  a  world  you  imagine  tin  is  to  be,  which  you 
are  so  merry  in." 

"  I  never  think  about  it  at  all,"  answered  Priscilla 
laughing.  "  But  this  I  am  sure  of,  that  it  is  a  world 
where  everybody  is  kind  to  me,  and  where  I  love  every- 
x>dy.  My  heart  keeps  dancing  within  me,  and  all  the 
foolish  thing?  which  you  see  me  do  are  o.'ily  the 


HOLLINGSWORTH,  ZENOBIA,  PRISCILLA,  91 

notions  of  my  heart.     How  can  I  be  dismal,  if  my  l.eart 
-'ill  not  let  me  ?  " 

"  Have  you  nothing  dismal  to  remember  ? "  I  sug 
gested.  "  If  not,  then,  indeed,  you  are  very  fortu 
nate  ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Priscilla,  slowly. 

And  then  came  that  unintelligible  gesture,  when  she 
seemed  to  be  listening  to  a  distant  voice. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  beneficently  seeking  to 
overshadow  her  with  my  own  sombre  humor,  "  my  past 
life  has  been  a  tiresome  one  enough ;  yet  I  would  rather 
look  backward  ten  times  than  forward  once.  For,  little 
as  we  know  of  our  life  to  come,  we  may  be  very  sure,  for 
one  thing,  that  the  good  we  aim  at  will  not  be  attained. 
People  never  do  get  just  the  good  th«y  seek.  If  it  come 
at  all,  it  is  something  else,  which  they  never  dreamed 
of,  and  did  not  particularly  want.  Then,  again,  we 
may  rest  certain  that  our  friends  of  to-day  will  not  be 
our  friends  of  a  few  years  hence ;  but,  if  we  keep  one  of 
them,  it  will  be  at  the  expense  of  the  others ;  and,  most 
probably,  we  shall  keep  none.  To  be  sure,  there  are 
more  to  be  had ;  but  who  cares  about  making  a  new  set 
of  friends,  even  should  they  be  better  than  those  around 
us?" 

'"  Not  I !  "  said  Priscilla.     "  I  will  live  and  die  with 
these ! " 

"  Well ;  but  let  the  future  go,"  resumed  I.  "  As  for 
the  present  moment,  if  we  cou',d  look  into  the  hearts 
where  we  wish  to  be  most  valued,  what  should  you 
expect  to  see  ?  One's  own  likeness,  in  the  innermost, 
noliest  niche  ?  Ah  !  I  don't  know !  It  may  not.  be  there 
at  all  It  ma}  be  a  dusty  iraage,  thrust  asi  le  into  « 


.92  THE    BLITHEDA^E    ROMAIsCfi 

comer,  and  by  and  by  to  be  flung  out  of  doors,  wh/ew 
any  foot  may  trample  upon  it.  If  not  to-day,  then  to 
morrow  !  And  ao,  Priscilla,  I  do  not  see  much  wisdom 
n  being  so  very  merry  in  this  kind  of  a  wond." 

It  had  taken  me  nearly  seven  years  of  worldly  life  to 
hive  up  the  bitter  honey  which  I  here  offered  to  Priscilla, 
And  she  rejected  it ! 

"I  don't  believe  one  word  of  what  you  say!"  she 
replied,  laughing  anew.  "  You  made  me  sad,  for  a 
minute,  by  talking  about  the  past ;  but  the  past  never 
comes  back  again.  Do  we  dream  the  same  dream 
twice  ?  There  is  nothing  else  that  I  am  afraid  of." 

So  away  she  ran,  and  fell  down  on  the  green  grass, 
BS  it  was  often  her  luck  to  do,  but  got  up  again,  without 
any  harm. 

"  Priscilla,  Priscilla !  "  cried  Hollingsworth,  who  was 
sitting  on  the  door-step  ;  "  you  had  better  not  run  any 
more  to-night.  You  will  weary  yourself  too  much. 
And  do  not  sit  down  out  of  doors,  for  there  is  a  heavy 
dew  beginning  to  fall." 

At  his  first  word,  she  went  and  sat  down  under  the 
porch,  at  Hollingsworth's  feet,  entirely  contented  and 
happy.  What  charm  was  there  in  his  rude  massiveness 
that  so  attracted  and  soothed  this  shadow-like  girl  ?  It 
appeared  to  me,  who  have  always  been  curious  in  such 
matters,  that  Priscilla's  vague  and  seemingly  causeless 
flow  of  felicitous  feeling  was  that  with  which  love  blesses 
inexperienced  hearts,  before  they  begin  to  suspect  what 
Is  going  on  within  them.  It  transports  them  to  the 
seventh  heaven;  and,  if  you  ask  what  brought  them 
tL»thtr,  they  neither  can  tell  nor  care  to  learn  bu? 


HOLLINGSWORTH,    ZENOBIA,    PR1SCILLA.  93 

iherish  un  ecstatic  faith  that  there  they  shall  abide  for 
ever. 

Zenobia  was  in  the  door-way,  not  far  from  Rollings- 
worta.  She  gazed  at  Priscilla  in  a  very  singular  way 
Indeed,  it  was  a  siorht  worth  gazing  at,  and  a  beautiful 
sight,  too,  as  the  fair  girl  sat  at  the  feet  of  that  dark, 
powerful  figure.  Her  air,  while  perfectly  modest,  deli 
cate  and  virgin-like,  denoted  her  as  swayed  by  H-jl- 
lingsworth,  attracted  to  him,  and  unconsciously  seeking 
to  rest  upon  his  strength.  I  could  not  turn  away  my 
own  eyes,  but  hoped  that  nobody,  save  Zenobia  and 
myself,  wore  witnessing  this  picture.  It  is  before  me 
now,  with  the  evening  twilight  a  little  deepened  by  the 
dusk  of  memory. 

"  Come  hither,  Priscilla,"  said  Zenobia.  "  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

She  spoke  in  little  more  than  a  whisper.  But  it  is 
strange  how  expressive  of  moods  a  whisper  may  often 
be.  Priscilla  felt  at  once  that  something  had  gone 
wrong. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?"  she  asked,  rising  slowly, 
and  standing  before  Zenobia  in  a  drooping  attituda 
"  What  have  I  done  ?  I  hope  you  are  not  angry  ! " 

"  No,  no,  Priscilla  ! "  said  Hollingsworth,  smiling.  "  J 
will  answer  for  it,  she  is  not.  You  are  the  pne  little 
person  in  the  world  with  whom  nobody  can  be  angry ! " 

"Angry  with  y.u,  child?  What  a  silly  idea!' 
fetclaimed  Zenobia,  laughing.  "  No,  indeed  !  But,  my 
iear  Priscilla,  you  are  getting  to  be  so  very  pretty  that 
you  absolutely  need  a  duenna ;  and,  as  I  am  older  than 
you,  anu  have  had  my  own  little  experience  of  life,  and 
think  myself  exceedingly  sage,  I  intend  to  fill  the  pluce 


\l\  THE    BL1THETULE    ROMANCE 

f'''  a  maiden-aunt.  Every  day,  I  shall  give  you  a  lec« 
t  .re,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  length,  on  the  morals, 
manners  and  proprieties,  of  social  life.  When  our  pas 
toral  shall  be.  quite  played  out,  Priscilla,  my  worldly 
wisdom  may  stand  you  in  good  stead." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  ire  angry  with  me ! "  repeated  Pris 
cilla,  sadly;  for,  while  she  seemed  as  impressible  as  wax, 
the  girl  often  showed  a  persistency  in  her  own  ideas  aa 
stubborn  as  it  was  gentle. 

"  Dear  me,  what  can  I  say  to  the  child  ! "  cried  Zeno- 
bia,  in  a  tone  of  humorous  vexation.  "  Well,  well ; 
since  you  insist  on  my  being  angry,  come  to  my  room, 
this  moment,  and  let  me  beat  you ! " 

Zenobia  bade  Hollingsworth  good-night  very  sweetly, 
and  nodded  to  me  with  a  smile.  But,  just  as  she 
turned  aside  with  Priscilla  into  the  dimness  of  the 
porch,  I  caught  another  glance  at  her  countenance. 
It  would  have  made  the  fortune  cf  a  tragic  actress, 
could  she  have  borrowed  it  for  the  moment  when  she 
fumbles  in  her  bosom  lor  the  concealed  dagger,  or  the 
exceedingly  sharp  bodkin,  or  mingles  the  ratsbane  in 
her  lover's  bowl  of  wine  or  her  rival's  cup  of  tea.  Not 
that  I  in  the  least  anticipated  any  such  catastrophe,  — 
it  being  a  remarkable  truth  that  custom  has  in  no  one 
point  a  greater  sway  than  over  our  modes  of  wreaking 
our  wild  passions.  And,  besides,  had  we  been  in  Italy, 
instead  of  New  England,  it  was  hardly  yet  a  crisis  for 
the  dagger  or  the  bowl. 

It  often  amazed  me,  however,  that  Hollingsworth 
should  show  himself  so  recklessly  tender  towards  Pris 
cilla,  and  never  once  seem  to  think  of  the  effect  which 
it  wight  have  upon  her  heart.  But  the  man,  as  I  have 


HOLLINGSWORTH,    ZENOBIA,    PRISCILLA*  tt5 

endeavored  to  explain,  was  thrown  completely  oil'  his 
moral  balance,  and  quite  .bewildered  as  to  his  persona! 
relations,  by  his  great  excrescence  of  a  philanthropic 
scheme.  I  used  to  see,  or  fancy,  indications  that  he  was 
not  altogether  obtuse  to  Zenobia's  influence  as  a  woman. 
No  doubt,  however,  he  had  a  still  more  exquisite  enjoy 
ment  of  Priscilla's  silent  sympathy  with  his  purposes,  so 
unalloyed  with  criticism,  and  therefore  more  grateful 
than  any  intellectual  approbation,  which  always  involves 
a  possible  reserve  of  latent  censure.  A  man  —  poet, 
prophet,  or  whatever  he  may  be  —  readily  persuades 
himself  of  his  right  to  all  the  worship  that  is  voluntarily 
tendered.  In  requital  of  so  rich  benefits  as  he  was  to 
confer  upon  mankind,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  deny 
Hollingsworth  the  simple  solace  of  a  young  girl's  heart, 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  smelled  to,  like  a  rose 
bud.  But  what  if,  while  pressing  out  its  fragrance,  he 
should  crush  the  tender  rosebud  in  his  grasp  ! 

As  for  Zenobia,  I  saw  no  occasion  to  give  myself  any 
trouble.  With  her  native  strength,  and  her  experience 
of  the  world,  she  could  not  be  supposed  to  need  any 
help  of  mine.  Nevertheless,  I  was  really  generous 
enough  to  feel  some  little  interest  likewise  for  Zenobia. 
With  all  her  fa  ilts  (which  might  have  been  a  great 
many,  besides  the  abundance  that  I  knew  of),  she  pos 
sessed  noble  traits,  and  a  heart  which  must  at  least  have 
been  valuable  while  new.  And  she  seemed  ready  to 
(ling  it  away  as  uncalculatingly  as  Priscilla  herself.  I 
could  not  but  suspect  that,  if  merely  at  play  with  Hoi 
tincrsworth,  she  was  sporting  with  a  power  which  she 
did  not  fully  estimate.  Or,  if  in  earnest,  it  rnigh; 
chance,  between  Zenobia  s  passionate  foice,  and  his  dark 


.l)6  THE    BLlfHEUALE    ROMANCE. 

self  delusive  egotism,  to  turn  out  such  earnest  as  would 
develop  itself  in  some  sufficiently  tragic  catastrophe 
though  the  dagger  and  the  bowl  should  go  for  nothing 
in  it. 

Meantime,  me  gossip  of  the  Community  set  them 
clown  as  a  pair  of  lovers.  They  took  walks  together, 
and  were  not  seldom  encountered  in  the  wood-paths; 
Hollirigsworth  deeply  discoursing,  in  tones  solemn  and 
sternly  pathetic.  Zenobia,  with  a  rich  glow  on  her 
cheeks,  and  her  eyes  softened  from  their  ordinary  bright 
ness,  looked  so  beautiful,  that,  had  her  companion  been 
ten  times  a  philanthropist,  it  seemed  impossible  but 
that  one  glance  should  melt  him  back  into  a  man 
Oftener  than  anywhere  else,  they  went  to  a  certain 
point  on  the  slope  of  a  pasture,  commanding  nearly  the 
whole  of  our  own  domain,  besides  a  view  of  the  river, 
and  an  airy  prospect  of  many  distant  hills.  The  bonl 
of  our  Community  was  such,  that  the  members  had  the 
privilege  of  building  cottages  for  their  own  residence 
within  our  precincts,  thus  laying  a  hearth-stone  and 
fencing  in  a  home  private  and  peculiar  to  all  desirable 
extent,  while  yet  the  inhabitants  should  continue  to 
share  the  advantages  of  an  associated  life.  It  was 
inferred  that  Hollingsworth  and  Zenobia  intended  to 
rear  their  dwelling  on  this  favorite  spot. 

I  mentioned  these  rumors  to  Hollingsworth,  in  a  play 
ful  way. 

"  Had  you  consulted  me,"  I  went  on  to  observe,  "  1 
should  have  recommended  a  site  further  to  the  left, 
just  a  little  withdrawn  into  the  wood,  with  two  or  three 
peeps  at  me  prosoect,  among  the  trees.  You  will  be  ir 
the  shady  vale  ?*  years,  long  before  you  can  raise  anj 


,IOLLL\GSWORTfi,    ZENOBIA,    PRISCILLi.  97 

octter  knd  of  shade  around  your  cottage,  if  you  build  it 
oa  this  bare  slope." 

"But  I  offer  my  edifice  as  a  spectacle  to  the  world," 
'aid  Hollingsworth,  "that  it  may  take  example  and 
kiild  many  another  like  if.  Therefore,  I  mean  to  set  it 
m  the  open  hill-side." 

Twist  these  words  how  I  might,  they  offered  no  very 
satisfactory  import.  It  seemed  hardly  probable  that 
Hollingsworth  should  care  about  educating  the  pubhc 
taste  in  the  department  of  cottage  architecture  desirable 
as  surb  imprwenert 


X, 

A  VISITER  FROM  TOWN. 

HoLLlNGswoRTH  and  I — we  had  been  hoeing  potatoes, 
that  forenoon,  while  the  rest  of  the  fraternity  were 
engaged  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the  farm  —  sat  under  a 
clump  of  maples,  eating  our  eleven  o'clock  lunch,  when 
we  saw  a  stranger  approaching  along  the  edge  of  the 
field.  He  had  admitted  himself  from  the  road-side 
through  a  turnstile,  and  seemed  to  have  a  purpose  ol 
speaking  with  us. 

And,  by  the  by,  we  were  favored  with  many  visits  at 
Blithedale,  especially  from  people  who  sympathized  with 
our  theories,  and  perhaps  held  themselves  ready  to  unite 
in  our  actual  experiment  as  soon  as  there  should  appear 
a  reliable  promise  of  its  success.  It  was  rather  ludi 
crous,  indeed  —  (to  me,  at  least,  whose  enthusiasm  had 
insensibly  been  exhaled,  together  with  the  perspiration 
01  many  a  hard  day's  toil),  —  it  was  absolutely  funny, 
therefore,  to  observe  what  a  glory  was  shed  about  our 
life  and  labors,  in  the  imagination  of  these  longing 
proselytes.  In  their  view,  we  were  as  poetical  as 
Arcadians,  besides  being  as  practical  as  the  hardest- 
fisted  husbandmen  in  Massachusetts.  Wt  did  net,  it  is 
true,  spend  much  time  in  piping  to  our  sheep,  or  war 
bling  our  innocent  loves  to  the  sisterhood.  But  they 
gave  us  credit  for  imbuing  the  ordinary  rustic  occupa 
tions  w'.th  a  kind  of  religious  poetry,  insomuch  that  oui 


A  riSITER    FROM    TOWN.  99 

very  cow-yards  and  pig-sties  were  as  delightful)  \  fragrant 
a*  a  flower-garden.  Nothing  used  to  please  me  more 
than  to  see  one  of  these  lay  enthusiasts  snatch  up  a  hoe, 
as  they  were  very  prone  to  do,  and  set  to  work  with  n 
vigor  that  perhaps  carried  him  through  about  a  dozen 
ill-directed  strokes.  Men  are  wonderfully  soon  satisfied 
in  this  day  of  shameful  bodily  enervation,  when,  from 
one  end  of  life  to  the  other,  such  multitudes  never  taste 
the  sweet  weariness  that  follows  accustomed  toil.  I  se.- 
dom  saw  the  new  enthusiasm  that  did  not  grow  as  flimsy 
and  flaccid  as  the  proselyte's  moistened  shirt-collar,  with 
a  quarter  of  an  hour's  active  labor  under  a  July  sun. 

But  the  person  now  at  hand  had  not  at  all  the  air  of 
one  of  these  amiable  visionaries.  He  was  an  elderly 
man,  dressed  rather  shabbily,  yet  decently  enough,  in  a 
gray,  frock-coat,  faded  towards  a  brown  hue,  and  wore  a 
broad-brimmed  white  hat,  of  the  fashion  of  several  years 
gone  by.  His  hair  was  perfect  silver,  without  a  dark 
thread  in  the  whole  of  it ;  his  nose,  though  it  had  a 
scarlet  tip,  by  nc  means  indicated  the  jollity  of  which  a 
red  nose  is  the  generally  admitted  symbol.  He  was  a 
subdued,  undemonstrative  old  man,  who  would  doubtless 
drink  a  glass  of  liquor,  now  and  then,  and  probably  more 
than  was  good  for  him  ;  —  not,  however,  with  a  purpose 
of  undue  exhilaration,  but  in  the  hope  of  bringing  his 
spirits  up  to  the  ordinary  level  of  the  world's  cheerful 
ness.  Drawing  nearer,  there  was  a  shy  look  about  him 
as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  his  poverty ;  or,  at  any  rate, 
for  some  reason  or  other,  would  rather  have  us  glance 
at  him  sidelong  than  take  a  full  front  view.  He  had 
a  queer  appearance  of  hiding  himself  bohinc  the  patch 
on  hw  left  eye 


100  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

"  1  know  this  old  gentleman,"  said  I  to  H(  Uingsworfto, 
as  we  sat  observing  him ;  "  that  is,  I  have  met  him  a 
hundred  times  in  town,  and  have  often  amused  my  fancy 
with  wondering  what  he  was  before  he  came  to  be  what 
he  is.  He  haunts  restaurants  and  such  places,  and  has 
tin  odd  way  of  lurking  in  corners  or  getting  behind  a 
door,  whenever  practicable,  and  holding  out  his  hand 
with  some  little  article  in  it  which  he  wishes  you  to 
buy.  The  eye  of  the  world  seems  to  trouble  him,  al 
though  he  necessarily  lives  so  much  in  it.  I  never 
expected  to  see  him  in  an  open  field." 

"  Have  you  learned  anything  of  his  J  jstory  ? "  asked 
Hollings  worth. 

"  Not  a  circumstance,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  there  must 
be  something  curious  in  it.  I  take  him  to  be  a  harmless 
sort  of  a  person,  and  a  tolerably  honest  one ;  but  his 
manners,  being  so  furtive,  remind  me  of  those  of  a  rat, 
—  a  rat  without  the  mischief,  the  fierce  eye,  the  teeth  to 
bite  with,  or  the  desire  to  bite.  See,  now!  He  means 
to  skulk  along  that  fringe  of  bushes,  and  approach  us 
on  the  other  side  of  our  clump  of  maples." 

We  soon  heard  the  old  man's  velvet  tread  on  the 
grass,  indicating  that  he  had  arrived  within  a  few  feet 
of  where  we  sat. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Moodie,"  said  Hollingsworth, 
addressing  the  stranger  as  an  acquaintance  ;  "  you  must 
have  had  a  hot  and  tiresome  walk  from  the  city.  Sit 
down,  and  take  a  morsel  of  our  bread  and  cheese." 

The  visiter  made  a  grateful  little  murmur  of  acquies 
cence,  and  sat  down  in  a  spot  somewhat  removed;  so 
that,  glancing  round,  I  could  see  his  gray  pantaloons  and 
dusty  shoes,  while  his  upper  part  was  mostly  hidden  be. 


A  VISITER    /ROM    TOWIt  10  4 

Jimd  the  shrubbery.  Nor  did  he  come  forth  from  this 
retirement  during  the  whole  of  the  interview  that  fol- 
'oweil.  We  handed  him  such  food  as  we  had,  together 
with  a  brown  jug  of  molasses  and  water  (would  that  it 
had  been  brandy,  or  something  better,  for  the  sake  of  his 
chill  old  heart!),  like  priests  offering  dainty  sacrifice  to  an 
enshrined  and  invisible  idol.  I  have  no  idea  that  he 
really  lacked  sustenance;  but  it  was  quite  touching, 
nevertheless,  to  hear  him  nibbling  away  at  our  crusts." 

"  Mr.  Moodie,"  said  I,  "  do  you  remember  selling  me 
one  of  those  very  pretty  little  silk  purses,  of  which  you 
seem  to  have  a  monopoly  in  the  market  ?  I  keep  it  to 
this  day,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  Ah,  thank  you,"  said  our  guest.  "  Yes,  Mr.  Cover- 
iale,  I  used  to  sell  a  good  many  of  those  little  purses." 

He  spoke  languidly,  and  only  those  few  words,  like  a 
watch  with  an  inelastic  spring,  that  just  ticks  a  moment 
or  two,  and  stops  again.  He  seemed  a  very  forlorn  old 
man.  In  the  wantonness  of  youth,  strength,  and  com 
fortable  condition,  —  making  my  prey  of  people's  indi 
vidualities,  as  my  custom  was,  —  I  tried  to  identify  my 
mind  with  the  old  fellow's,  and  take  his  v.ew  of  the 
world,  as  if  looking  through  a  smoke-blackened  glass  at 
the  sun.  It  robbed  the  landscape  of  all  its  lite.  Those 
pleasantly  swelling  slopes  of  our  farm,  descending  towards 
the  wide  meadows,  through  which  sluggishly  circled  the 
brimful  tide  of  the  Charles,  bathing  the  long  sedges  on 
its  hither  and  further  shores  ;  the  broad,  sunn)  gleam 
over  the  winding  water ;  that  peculiar  picturesqueness 
of  the  scene  where  capes  and  headlands  put  themselves 
boldly  forth  upon  the  perfect  level  of  the  meadcw,  as 
green  lake,  with  inlets  between  the  promontori-ea 


JU2  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

the  shadowy  woodland,  with  twinkling  showers  of 
falling  into  its  depths ;  the  sultry  heat-vapor,  which  rose 
everywhere  like  incense,  and  in  which  my  soul  delighted, 
as  indicating  so  ri:h  a  fervor  in  the  passionate  day,  and 
m  the  earth  that  was  burning  with  its  love  ;  — I  beheld 
all  these  things  as  through  old  Hoodie's  eyes.  Wliei 
my  eyes  are  dimmer  than  they  have  yet  come  to  be,  J 
will  go  thither  again,  and  see  if  I  did  not  catch  the  tone 
of  his  mind  aright,  and  if  the  cold  and  lifeless  tint  of 
his  perceptions  be  not  then  repeated  in  my  own. 

Yet  it  was  unaccountable  to  myself,  the  interest  that  I 
felt  in  him. 

"  Have  you  any  objection,"  said  1,  "to  telling  me  who 
made  those  little  purses  ?  " 

"Gentlemen  have  often  asked  me  that,"  said  Moodie, 
slowly ;  "  but  I  shake  my  head,  and  say  little  or  nothing, 
and  creep  out  of  the  way  as  well  as  I  can.  I  am  a  man 
of  few  words ;  and  if  gentlemen  were  to  be  told  one 
thing,  they  would  be  very  apt,  I  suppose,  to  ask  me 
another.  But  it  happens,  just  now,  Mr.  Coverdale  that 
you  can  tell  me  more  about  the  maker  of  those  little 
purses  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Why  do  you  trouble  him  with  needless  questions, 
Coverdale  ? "  interrupted  Hollingsworth.  "  You  must 
have  known,  long  ago,  that  it  was  Priscilla.  And  sc, 
my  good  friend,  you  have  come  to  see  her  ?  Well,  I 
am  glad  of  it.  You  will  find  her  altered  very  mu»  h  for 
the  better,  since  that  winter  evening  when  you  put  her 
into  my  charge.  Why,  Priscilla  has  a  blc  wn  in  he; 
heeks,  now !  " 

"Has  my  pale  little  girl  a  bloom?"  repeated  Moodie, 
with  a  kind  of  slow  wonder.  "Priscilla  with  a  Moon? 


A  VISITER    FROM    TOWN.  10B 

in  h  ;i  .:ncek*  !  Ah,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  know  my 
.ittle  girl.  And  is  she  happy  ? " 

"Just  as  hc.ppy  as  a  bird,"  answered  Hollingsworth. 

"  Then,  gentlemen,"  said  our  guest,  apprehensively, 
"  I  don't  think  it  well  for  me  to  go  any  further.  1  crept 
V.therward  only  to  ask  about  Priscilla;  and  now  that 
you  have  told  me  such  good  news,  perhaps  I  can  do  no 
better  than  to  creep  back  again.  If  she  were  to  see  this 
old  face  of  mine,  the  child  would  remember  some  very 
sad  times  which  we  have  spent  together.  Some  very 
sad  times,  indeed  !  She  has  forgotten  them,  I  know,  — 
them  and  me,  —  else  she  could  not  be  so  happy,  nor 
have  a  bloom  in  her  cheeks.  Yes  —  yes  —  yes,"  con 
tinued  he,  still  with  the  same  torpid  utterance ;  "  with 
many  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Holl  ings  worth,  I  will  creep 
back  to  town  again." 

"  You  shall  do  no  such  thing,  Mr.  Moodie,"  said  Hol- 
iings worth,  bluffly.  "  Priscilla  often  speaks  of  you  ;  and 
if  there  lacks  anything  to  make  her  cheeks  bloom  like 
two  damask  roses,  I  '11  venture  to  say  it  is  just  the  sight 
of  your  face.  Come,  —  we  will  go  and  find  her." 

"  Mr.  Hollingsworth  !  "  said  the  old  man,  in  his  hesi 
tating  way, 

"  Well,"  answered  Hollingsworth. 

"  Has  there  been  any  call  for  Priscilla  ? "  asked 
Moodie ;  and  though  his  face  was  hidden  from  us,  his 
tone  gave  a  sure  indication  of  the  mysterious  nod  and 
wink  with  which"  he  put  the  question.  "  You  know,  1 
think,  sir,  what  I  mean." 

"  I  have  not  the  remotest  suspicion  what  you  mean, 
Mr.  Moodie,"  replied  Hollingsworth ;  "  nobody,  to  my 
knowledge,  has  called  for  Priscilla,  excopt  yourself  Rut 


.04  THE    B^lxiEDALE    ROMANCE. 

come  ;  we  are  losing  timr,  and  1  nave  several  thin^j  tfl 
say  to  you  by  the  way." 

"  And,  Mr.  Hollingsworth !  "  repeated  Hoodie. 

"  Well,  again !  "  cried  my  friend,  rather  impatiently 
:t  What  now  ? " 

"  There  is  a  lady  here,"  said  the  old  man ;  and  his 
voice  lost  some  of  its  wearisome  hesitation.  "  You  will 
account  it  a  very  strange  matter  for  me  to  talk  about  ; 
but  I  chanced  to  know  this  lady  when  she  was  but  a 
little  child.  If  I  am  rightly  informed,  she  has  grown  tc 
be  a  very  fine  woman,  and  makes  a  brMiant  figure  in 
the  world,  with  her  beauty,  and  her  talents,  and  hei 
noble  way  of  spending  her  riches.  I  should  recognize 
this  lady,  so  people  tell  me,  by  a  magnificent  flower  in 
her  hair." 

"What  a  rich  tinge  it  gives  to  his  colorless  ideas, 
when  he  speaks  of  Zenobia !  "  I  whispered  to  Hollings 
worth.  "  But  how  can  there  possibly  be  any  interest  or 
connecting  link  between  him  and  her  ? " 

"  The  old  man,  for  years  past,"  whispered  Hollings 
worth,  "has  been  a  little  out  of  his  right  mind,  as  you 
probably  see." 

"  What  I  would  inquire,"  resumed  Moodie,  "  is, 
whether  this  beautiful  lady  is  kind  to  my  poor  Priscilla." 

"  Very  kind,"  said  Hollingsworth. 

"  Does  she  love  her  ? "  asked  Moodie. 

*'  It  should  seem  so,"  answered  my  friend.  "  The^ 
ire  always  together." 

<l  Like  a  gentlewoman  and  her  maid-servant,  J  fancy  ? 
suggested  the  old  man. 

There  was  something  so  singular  in  his  way  of  say 
mg  this,  tha*,  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  turn  quite 


A    V1SITER    FROM    TOWN.  105 

Mind,  so  us  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  almost 
imagining  that  I  should  see  another  person  than  old 
Moodie.  But  there  he  sat,  with  the  patched  side  of  his 
face  towards  me. 

"  Like  an  elder  and  younger  sister,  rather,"  replied 
Rollings  worth. 

"  Ah ! "  sa-d  Moodie,  more  complacently,  —  for  his 
latter  tones  hau  harshness  and  acidity  in  them,  —  "  it 
would  gladden  my  old  heart  to  witness  that.  If  one 
thing  would  make  me  happier  than  another,  Mr.  Hoi- 
lingsworth,  it  would  be  to  see  that  beautiful  lady  hold 
ing  my  little  girl  by  the  hand." 

"  Come  along,"  said  Rollings  worth,  "  and  perhaps 
you  may." 

After  a  little  more  delay  on  the  part  of  our  freakish 
visiter,  they  set  forth  together,  old  Moodie  keeping  a 
step  or  two  behind  Hollingsworth,  so  that  the  latter 
could  not  very  conveniently  look  him  in  the  face.  1 
remained  under  the  tuft  of  maples,  doing  my  utmost  to 
draw  an  inference  from  the  scene  that  had  just  pass?d. 
In  spite  of  Hollingsworth 's  off-hand  explanation,  it  did 
not  strike  me  that  our  strange  guest  was  really  beside1 
himself,  but  only  that  his  mind  needed  screwing  up,  like 
an  instrument  long  out  of  tune,  the  strings  of  which 
have  ceased  to  vibrate  smartly  and  sharply.  Methought 
it  would  be  profitable  for  us,  projectors  of  a  happy  life, 
to  welcome  this  old  gray  shadow,  and  cherish  him  as 
one  of  us,  and  let  him  creep  about  our  domain,  in  order 
that  he  might  be  a  little  merrier  for  our  sakes,  and  we. 
sometimes,  a  little  srdder  for  his.  Human  destinies 
look  ominous  without  rome  perceptible  intermixture  of 
the  sable  or  the  gray  £i •<*  then,  too,  sht.uld  any  of  oui 


*  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

fraternity  grow  feverish  with  an  over-exulting  sen  m  of 
prosperity,  it  would 'be  a  sort  of  cooling  regimen  to  slink 
off  into  the  woods,  and  spend,  an  hour,  or  a  day,  or  a? 
many  days  as  might  be  requisite  to  the  cure,  in  unmter 
.rupted  communion  with  this  deplorable  old  Moodie  ! 

Going  homeward  to  dinner,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  him, 
beh'nd  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  gazing  earnestly  towards  a 
particular  window  of  the  farm-house ;  and,  by  and  by, 
Priscilla  appeared  at  this  window,  playfully  drawing 
along  Zeuobia,  who  looked  as  bright  as  the  very  day 
that  was  blazing  down  upon  us,  only  not,  by  many 
degrees,  so  well  advanced  towards  her  noon.  I  waa 
convinced  that  this  pretty  sight  must  have  been  pur 
posely  arranged  by  Priscilla  for  the  old  man  to  see. 
rfut  either  the  girl  held  her  too  long,  or  her  fondness 
*vas  resented  as  too  great  a  freedom ;  for  Zenobia  sud- 
lenly  pnt  Priscilla  decidedly  away,  and  gave  her  a 
naughty  look,  as  from  a  mistress  to  a  dependant.  Old 
Moodie  shook  his  head;  and  again  and  ao-ain  I  saw 
him  sh^ke  it,  as  he  withdrew  along  the  road;  and,  at 
the  l&p*  point  whence  the  farm-house  was  vi?.ible,  b.? 
turned  *n !  shook  his  uplifted  staff. 


XI. 

THE  WOOD-PATH. 

NOT  long  after  the  preceding  incident,  in  order  to  giet 
the  ache  of  too  constant  labor  out  of  my  bones,  and  to 
relieve  my  spirit  of  the  irksomeness  of  a  settled  routine, 
I  took  a  holiday.  It  was  my  purpose  to  spend  it,  all 
alone,  from  breakfast-time  till  twilight,  in  the  deepest 
wood-seclusion  that  lay  anywhere  around  us.  Though 
fond  of  society,  I  was  so  constituted  as  to  need  these 
occasional  retirements,  even  in  a  life  like  that  of  Blithe- 
dale,  which  was  itself  characterized  by  a  remoteness 
from  the  world.  Unless  renewed  by  a  yet  further  with 
drawal  towards  the  inner  circle  of  self-communion,  I  lost 
the  better  part  of  my  individuality.  My  thoughts  be 
came  of  little  worth,  and  my  sensibilities  grew  as  arid 
as  a  tuft  of  moss  (a  thing  whose  life  is  in  the  shade,  the 
rain,  or  the  noontide  dew),  crumbling  in  the  sunshine, 
after  long  expectance  of  a  shower.  So,  with  my  heart 
full  of  a  drowsy  pleasure,  and  cautious  not  to  dissipate 
tny  mood  by  previous  intercourse  with  any  one,  I  hurried 
away,  and  was  soon  pacing  a  wood-path,  arched  ovei 
head  with  boughs,  and  dusky-brown  beneath  my  feet. 

At  first,  I  walked  very  swiftly,  as  if  the  heavy  flood- 
tide  of  social  life  were  roaring  at  my  heels,  and  would 
outstrip  and  overwhelm  me,  without  all  the  better  dili 
gence  in  my  escape.  But,  threading  the  i  lore  distant 
windings  of  the  track,  I  abated  -^y  pace,  and  looked 


108  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

about  me  foi  some  side-aisle,  that  should  admit  rne  into 
the  innermost  sanctuary  of  this  green  cathedral,  just  as, 
in  human  acquaintanceship,  a  casual  opening  sometimes 
lets  us,  all  of  a  sudden,  into  the  long-sought  intimacy  of 
a  mysterious  heart.  So  IHT;  :h  was  I  absorbed  in  my 
reflections,  —  or,  rather,  in  my  mood,  the  substance  of 
which  \vas  as  yet  too  shapeless  to  be  called  thought,  — 
that  footsteps  rustled  on  the  leaves,  and  a  figure  passed 
me  by,  almost  without  impressing  either  the  sound  or 
sight  upon  my  consciousness. 

A  moment  afterwards,  I  heard  a  voice  at  a  little  dis 
tance  behind  me*,  speaking  so  sharply  and  impertinent!}' 
that  it  made  a  complete  discord  with  my  spiritual  state, 
nnd  caused  the  latter  to  vanish  as  abruptly  as  when 
you  thrust  a  finger  into  a  soap-bubble. 

"  Halloo,  friend  !  "  cried  this  most  unseasonable  voice. 
"  Stop  a  moment,  I  say !  I  must  have  a  word  with 
you ! " 

I  turned  about,  in  a  humor  ludicrously  irate.  In  the 
first  plac.3,  the  interruption,  at  any  rate,  was  a  grievous 
injury;  then,  the  tone  displeased  me.  And,  finally, 
unless  there  be  real  affection  in  his  heart,  a  man  cannot, 
—  such  is  the  bad  state  to  which  the  world  has  brought 
itself,  —  cannot  more  effectually  show  his  contempt  foi 
;?  brother-mortal,  nor  more  gallingly  assume  a  position 
of  superiority,  than  by  addressing  him  as  "  friend." 
Especially  does  the  misapplication  of  this  phrase  bring 
out  that  latent  hostility  which  is  sure  to  animate  peculiai 
sects,  and  those  who,  with  however  generous  a  purpose. 
have  sequestered  themselves  from  the  crowd;  a  feeling 
it  is  true,  which  may  be  hidden  in  some  dog-kennel  of 
the  heart,  grumbling  there  in  the  darknr  ss,  but  i?  nevti 


THE    WOOD-1'ATH.  109 

q  iite  extinct,  untill  the  dissenting  party  ha\e  gainec 
ptAver  and  scope  enough  to  treat  the  world  generously 
For  my  part,  I  ?hould  have  taken  it  as  far  less  an  insult 
to  :e  styled  c  fallow,"  "clown,"  or  "bumpkin.''  To 
tiaier  of  these  appellations  my  rustic  garb  (it  was  a 
iin.cn  blouse,  with  checked  shirt  and  striped  pantaloons, 
iv  chip-hat  on  my  head,  and  a  rough  hickory-stick  in  my 
ha'.id)  very  fairly  entitled  me.  As  the  case  stood,  my 
a-inper  darted  at  once  to  the  opposite  pole ;  not  friend, 
but  enemy ! 

•  What  do  you  want  with  me  1 "  said  I,  facing  about. 

;Come  a  little  nearer,  friend,"  said  the  stranger, 
beckoning. 

"  No,"  answered  I.  "  If  I  can  do  anything  for  you, 
without  too  much  trouble  to  myself,  say  so.  But 
recollect,  if  you  please,  that  you  are  not  speaking  to  an 
acquaintance,  much  less  a  friend  !  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  believe  not !  "  retorted  he,  looking 
at  me  with  some  curiosity ;  and,  lifting  his  hat,  he  made 
me  a  salute  which  had  enough  of  sarcasm  to  be  offens 
ive,  and  just  enough  of  doubtful  courtesy  to  render  any 
resentment  of  it  absurd.  "  But  I  ask  your  pardon  !  1 
recognize  a  little  mistake.  If  I  may  take  the  liberty  to 
suppose  it,  you,  sir,  are  probably  one  of  the  aesthetic  — 
ur  shall  I  rather  say  ecstatic  1  —  laborers,  who  have 
planted  themselves  hereabouts.  This  is  your  forest  of 
Arden  and  you  are  either  the  banished  Duke  in  person, 
or  one  UL  the  chief  nobles  in  his  train.  The  melancholy 
lacques,  perhaps  1  Be  it  so.  In  that  case,  you  ct  n 
probably  do  me  a  favor." 

1  ne^/er,  in  my  life,  felt  less  inclined  to  center  a  favor 
5>i\  any  man, 


J10  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

"  I  am  busy,"  said  I. 

So  unexpectedly  had  the  stranger  made  m:  sensible 
of  his  presence,  that  he  had  almost  the  effect  of  .m  ap 
parition  ;  and  certainly  a  less  appropriate  one  (taking 
into  vic-w  the  dim  woodland  solitude  about  us)  than  it 
the  salvage  man  of  antiquity,  hirsute  and  cinctured  with 
B  leafy  girdle,  had  started  out  of  a  thicket.  He  was 
still  young,  seemingly  a  little  under  thirty,  of  a  tall  and 
well-developed  figure,  and  as  handsome  a  man  as  ever  I 
beheld.  The  style  of  his  beauty,  however,  though  a 
masculine  style,  did  not  at  all  commend  itself  to  my 
taste.  His  countenance  —  I  hardly  know  how  to  de 
scribe  the  peculiarity  —  had  an  indecorum  in  it,  a  kind 
of  rudeness,  a  hard,  coarse,  forth-putting  freedom  of 
expression,  which  no  degree  of  external  polish  could 
have  abated  one  single  jot.  Not  that  it  was  vulgar. 
But  he  had  no  fineness  of  nature ;  there  was  in  his  eyes 
(although  they  might  have  artifice  enough  of  another 
sort)  the  naked  exposure  of  something  that  ought  riot  to 
be  left  prominent.  With  these  vague  allusions;  to  what 
I  have  seen  in  other  faces,  as  well  as  his,  I  leave  the 
quality  to  be  comprehended  best  — because  with  an  intu 
itive  repugnance  — by  those  who  possess  least  of  it. 

His  hair,  as  well  as  his  beard  and  mustache,  was 
coal-black ;  his  eyes,  too,  were  black  and  sparkling,  and 
his  teeth  remarkably  brilliant.  He  was  rather  care 
lessly  but  well  and  fashionably  dressed,  in  a  summer- 
morning  costume.  There  was  a  gold  chain,  exquisitely 
wrought,  across  his  vest.  I  never  saw  a  smoother  01 
whiter  gloss  than  tbr.t  upon  his  shirt-bosom,  which  ha^ 
a  pin  in  it,  set  with  a  gem  that  glimmered,  in  the  leaf) 
shadow  where  he  stood,  like  a  living  tip  of  fire.  He 


iHE    WOOD -PATH.  Ill 

zarriud  a  stick  with  a  wooden  head,  carved  in  vivid  im 
itation  of  that  of  a  serpent.  I  hated  him,  partly,  I  do 
believe,  from  a  comparison  of  my  own  homely  garb  with 
his  well-ordered  foppishness. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  I,  a  little  ashamed  of  my  first  irrita 
tion,  but  stiil  with  no  waste  of  civility,  "  be  pleased  tn 
apeak  at  once,  as  I  have  my  own  business  in  hand." 

"  I  regret  that  my  mode  of  addressing  you  was  a  .ittle 
nnfortunate,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling;  for  he  seemed 
a  very  acute  sort  of  person,  and  saw,  in  some  degree, 
how  I  stood  affected  towards  him.  "  I  intended  no 
offence,  and  shall  certainly  comport  myself  with  due  cer 
emony  hereafter.  I  merely  wish  to  make  a  few  inquiries 
respecting  a  lady,  formerly  of  my  acquaintance,  who  is 
now  resident  in  your  Community,  and,  I  believe,  largely 
concerned  in  your  social  enterprise.  You  call  her,  I 
think,  Zenobia." 

"That  is  her  name  in  literature,"  observed  I;  ua 
name,  too,  which  possibly  she  may  permit  her  private 
friends  to  know  and  address  her  by,  —  but  not  one  which 
they  feel  at  liberty  to  recognize  when  used  of  her,  per 
sonally,  by  a  stranger  or  casual  acquaintance." 

"  Indeed  ! "  answered  this  disagreeable  person  ;  and 
he  turned  aside  his  face  for  an  instant  with  a  brief  laugh, 
which  struck  me  as  a  note-worthy  expression  of  his 
character.  "  Perhaps  I  might  put  forward  a  claim,  on 
your  own  grounds,  to  call  the  lady  by  a  name  so  appro 
priate  to  her  splendid  qualities.  But  I  am  willing  to 
know  her  by  any  cognomen  that  you  may  suggest." 

Heartily  wishing  that  he  would  be  either  a  little  more 
offensive,  or  a  good  deal  less  so,  or  break  cif  our  inter 
course  altogether,  I  mentioned  Zenobia's  real  name. 


11 'J  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

"True,"  said  he;  "and,  in  general  society,  i  hairo 
never  heard  her  called  otherwise.  And,  after  all,  our 
discussion  of  the  point  has  been  gratuitous.  My  object 
is  only  to  inquire  when,  where  and  how,  this  lady  may 
moat  conveniently  be  seen." 

"  At  her  present  residence,  of  course,"  f  replied. 
'You  have  but  to  go  thither  and  ask  for  her.  This 
rery  path  will  lead  you  within  sight  of  the  house ;  so  1 
nrish  you  good-morning." 

"  One  moment,  if  you  please,"  said  the  stranger. 
'The  course  you  indicate  would  certainly  be  the  proper 
.me,  in  an  ordinary  morning  call.  But  my  business  is 
private,  personal,  and  somewhat  peculiar.  Now,  in  a 
community  like  this,  I  should  judge  that  any  little  occur 
rence  is  likely  to  be  discussed  rather  more  minutely  than 
would  quite  suit  my  views.  1  refer  solely  to  myself, 
you  understand,  and  without  intimating  that  it  would 
be  other  than  a  matter  of  entire  indifference  to  the  lady. 
In  short,  I  especially  desire  to  see  her  in  private.  If  her 
habits  are  such  as  I  have  known  them,  she  is  probably 
often  to  be  met  with  in  the  woods,  or  by  the  river-side ; 
and  I  think  you  could  do  me  the  favor  to  point  out  some 
favorite  walk  where,  about  this  hour,  I  might  be  fortu 
nate  enough  to  gain  an  interview." 

I  reflected  that  it  would  be  quite  a  supererogatory  piece 
of  Quixotism  in  me  to  undertake  the  guardianship  of  Zeno 
bia,  who,  for  my  pains,  would  only  make  me  the  butt  of 
endless  ridicule,  should  the  fact  ever  come  to  her  knew] 
edg-}.  I  therefore  described  a  spot  which,  as  often  a» 
any  other,  w.is  Zenobia's  resort  at  this  period  cf  tho 
**  ;  nor  WHS  it  so  remote  from  the  farm -ho  use  as  tc 


fHE    WOOD-PATF.  113 

,eavc  her  in  much  peril,  whatever  might  be  the  stranger's 
character. 

to  A  single  word  more,"  said  he ;  and  his  black  eyes 
sparkled  at  me,  whether  with  fun  or  malice  I  knew  not, 
but  certainly  as  if  the  devil  were  peeping  out  of  them. 
:<  Among  your  fraternity,  I  understand,  there  is  a  certain 
holy  and  benevolent  blacksmith  ;  a  man  of  iron,  in  more 
senses  than  one ;  a  rough,  cross-grained,  well-meaning 
individual,  rather  boorish  in  his  manners,  as  might  be 
expected,  and  by  no  means  of  the  highest  intellectual 
cultivation.  He  is  a  philanthropical  lecturer,  with  two 
or  three  disciples,  and  a  scheme  of  his  own,  the  prelim 
inary  step  in  which  involves  a  large  purchase  of  land,  and 
the  erection  of  a  spacious  edifice,  at  an  expense  consid 
erably  beyond  his  means ;  inasmuch  as  these  are  to  be 
reckoned  in  copper  or  old  iron  much  more  conveniently 
than  in  gold  or  silver.  He  hammers  away  upon  his  one 
topic  as  lustily  as  ever  he  did  upon  a  horse-shoe  !  Do 
you  know  such  a  person  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head,  and  was  turning  away. 

"  Our  friend,"  he  continued,  "  is  described  to  me  as  a 
brawny,  shaggy,  grim  and  ill-favored  personage,  not  par 
ticularly  well  calculated,  one  would  say,  to  insinuate 
himself  with  the  softer  sex.  Yet,  so  far  has  this  honest 
fellow  succeeded  with  one  lady  whom  we  wot  of,  that  he 
anticipates,  from  her  abundant  resources,  the  necessary 
funds  for  realizing  his  plan  in  brick  and  mortar !  " 

Here  the  stranger  seemed  to  be  so  much  amused  with 
his  sketch  of  Hollmgs worth's  character  and  purposes, 
that  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  merriment,  of  the  same  na 
ture  as  the  brief,  metallic  laugh,  already  alluded  to. 
but  imnuniely  prolonged  and  enlarged.  In  the  excess 
' 


U4  THE  BLITHEUALE  ROMANCE. 

of  his  delight,  he  opened  his  mouth  wide,  and  disc  losed 
a  gold  band  around  the  upper  ^art  of  his  teetl  thereby 
•making  it  apparent  that  every  one  of  his  brilliant  grind 
ers  and  incisors  was  a  sham.  This  discovery  affected 
me  very  oddly.  I  felt  as  \f  the  whole  man  were  a  moral 
and  physical  humbug ;  his  wonderful  beauty  of  face,  for 
aught  I  knew,  might  be  removable  like  a  mask ;  and, 
tall  and  comely  as  his  figure  looked,  he  was  perhaps  but 
a  wizened  little  elf,  gray  and  decrepit,  with  nothing  gen 
uine  about  him,  save  the  wicked  expression  of  his  grin. 
The  fantasy  of  his  spectral  character  so  wrought  upon 
me,  together  with  the  contagion  of  his  strange  mirth  on 
tny  sympathies,  that  I  soon  began  to  laugh  as  loudly  as 
himself. 

By  and  by,  he  paused  all  at  once ;  so  suddenly, 
indeed,  that  my  own  cachinnation  lasted  a  moment 
longer. 

"  Ah,  excuse  me  ! ?>  said  he.  "  Our  interview  seems  to 
proceed  more  merrily  than  it  began." 

"  It  ends  here,'5  answered  I.  "  And  1  take  shame  to 
myself,  that  my  folly  has  lost  me  the  right  of  resenting 
your  ridicule  of  a  friend." 

••  Pray  allow  me,"  said  the  stranger,  approaching  a  step 
nearer,  and  laying  his  gloved  hand  on  my  sleeve.  "  One 
other  favor  I  must  ask  of  you.  You  have  a  young  person, 
here  at  Blithedale,  of  whom  I  have  heard,  —  whom,  per 
haps,  I  have  known,  —  and  in  whom,  at  all  events,  I  take  a 
peculiar  interest.  She  is  one  of  those  delicate,  nervous 
young  creatures,  not  uncommon  in  New  England,  and 
whom  I  suppose  to  have  become  what  we  find  them  by 
he  gradual  refining  away  of  the  physical  system 
wnong  your  women.  Some  philosophers  choose  to  gU» 


THE    WOOD-PATH.  115 

rify  this  habit  of  body  by  terming1  it  spiritual ;  but,  in  my 
opinion,  it  is  rather  the  effect  of  unwholesome  food,  bad 
air,  lack  of  out-door  exercise,  and  neglect  of  bathing,  on 
the  part  of  these  damsels  and  their  frmale  progenitors, 
all  resulting  in  a  kind  of  hereditary  dyspepsia.  Zenobia, 
evsn  with  her  uncomfortable  surplus  of  vitality,  is  far 
the  better  model  of  womanhood.  But  —  to  revert  again 
to  this  young  person  —  she  goes  among  you  by  the  name 
of  Priscilla.  Couid  you  possibly  afford  me  the  means  of 
speaking  with  her  ? " 

"  You  have  made  so  many  inquiries  of  me,"  I  observed, 
'  that  I  may  at  least  trouble  you  with  one.  What  is 
your  name  ? " 

He  offered  me  a  card,  with  "  Professor  "Westervelt " 
engraved  on  it.  At  the  same  time,  as  if  to  vindicate  his 
claim  to  the  professorial  dignity,  so  often  assumed  on 
very  questionable  grounds,  he  put  or:  a  pair  of  spectacles, 
which  so  altered  the  character  of  his  face  that  I  hardly 
knew  him  again.  But  I  liked  the  present  aspect  no 
better  than  the  former  one. 

"  I  must  decline  any  further  connection  with  your 
ixffairs,"  said  I,  drawing  back.  "  I  have  told  you  where 
to  find  Zenobia.  As  for  Priscilla,  she  has  closer  friends 
than  myself,  through  whom,  if  they  see  fit,  you  can  gain 
access  to  her." 

"In  that  case,"  returned  the  Professor,  ceremoniously 
raising  his  hat,  "  good-morning  to  you." 

He  took  his  departure,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight 
among  the  windings  of  the  wood-path.  But  after  a 
little  reflectfon,  I  ?ould  not  help  regretting  that  I  had  sc 
peremptorily  broken  off  the  interview,  while  the  stranger 
leemed  inclined  to  continue  it.  His  evident 


116  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

of  matters  affecting  my  three  friends  might  have  led  to 
disclosures,  or  inferences,  that  would  perhaps  have  been 
serviceable.  I  was  p  irticularly  struck  with  the  fact  that, 
ever  since  the  appearance  of  Priscilla,  it  had  been  the 
tendency  of  events  to  suggest  and  establish  a  connection 
between  Zenobia  and  her.  She  had  come,  in  the  firsf 
instance,  as  if  with  the  sole  purpose  of  claiming  Zeno- 
bia's  protection.  Old  Hoodie's  visit,  it  appeared,  was 
chiefly  to  ascertain  whether  this  object  had  been  accom 
plished.  And  here,  to-day,  was  the  questionable  Pro 
fessor,  linking  one  with  the  other  in  his  inquiries,  and 
sacking  communication  with  both. 

Meanwhile,  my  inclination  for  a  ramble  having  been 
balked,  I  lingered  in  the  vicinity  of  the  farm,  with  per 
haps  a  vague  idea  that  some  new  event  would  grow  out 
jf  Westervelt's  proposed  interview  with  Zenobia.  My 
own  part  in  these  transactions  was  singularly  subordi 
nate.  It  resembled  that  of  the  Chorus  in  a  classic  play, 
which  seems  to  be  set  aloof  from  the  possibility  of  per 
sonal  concernment,  and  bestows  the  whole  measure  of  its 
hope  or  fear,  its  exultation  or  sorrow,  on  the  fortunes  of 
others,  between  whom  and  itself  this  sympathy  is  die 
only  bond.  Destiny,  it  may  be,  —  the  most  skilful  of 
stage-managers,  —  seldom  chooses  to  arrange  its  scenet, 
and  carry  forward  its  drama,  without  securing  the  pres 
ence  of  at  least  one  calm  observer.  It  is  his  office  to 
give  applause  when  due,  and  sometimes  an  inevitable 
tear,  to  detect  the  final  fitness  of  incident  to  character 
rind  distil  in  his  long-brooding  thought  the  whole  moral 
ity  of  the  performance. 

Not  to  be  out  of  the  way,  in  case  there  were  need  of 
me  in  my   vocation,  arid,  at  the  same   time,  to  avoid 


THE    WOOD-PATH.  * 

trusting  myself  where  neither  destiny  nor  mortals 
might  desire  my  presence,  I  remained  pretty  near  the 
verge  of  the  woodlands.  My  position  was  off  the  track 
of  Zenobia's  customary  walk,  vet  not  so  remote  but  that 
a  recognized  occasion  might  speedily  have  brought  ro» 
thither. 


XII. 

COVERDALE'S  HERMITAGE. 

since,  in  this  part  of  our  circumjacent  wood,  1 
had  found  out  for  myself  a  little  hermitage.  It  was  a 
kind  of  leafy  cave,  high  upward  into  the  air,  among  the 
midmost  branches  of  a  white-pine  tree.  A  wild  grape 
vine,  of  unusual  size  and  luxuriance,  had  twined  and 
twisted  itself  up  into  the  tree,  and,  after  wreathing  the 
entanglem  >nt  of  its  tendrils  almost  around  every  bough, 
had  caught  hold  of  three  or  four  neighboring  trees,  and 
married  the  whole  clump  with  a  perfectly  inextricable 
knot  of  polygamy.  Once,  while  sheltering  myself  from 
a  summer  shower,  the  fancy  had  taken  me  to  clamber  up 
into  this  seemingly  impervious  mass  of  foliage.  The 
branches  yielded  me  a  passage,  and  closed  again  beneath, 
as  if  only  a  squirrel  or  a  bird  had  passed.  Far  aloft, 
around  the  stem  of  the  central  pine,  behold  a  perfect  nest 
for  Robinson  Crusoe  or  King  Charles  !  A  hollow  chain- 
her  of  rare  seclusion  had  been  formed  by  the  decay  of 
some  of  the  pine  branches,  which  the  vine  had  lovingly 
strangled  with  its  embrace,  burying  them  from  the  light 
of  day  in  an  aerial  sepulchre  of  its  own  leaves.  It  cost 
.ne  but  little  ingenuity  to  enlarge  the  interior,  and  open 
4oop-holes  through  the  verdant  walls.  Had  it  ever  been 
my  fortune  4o  spend  a  honey-moon,  I  should  have  though  1 
Beriously  o,  nviting  my  bride  up  thither,  *Iie-«  oui 


COVERDALE'S  HERMITAGE.  118 

next  neighbors  would  have  been  two  orioles  in  another 
part  of  the  clump. 

It  was  an  admirable  place  to  make  verses,  tuning  the 
rhythm  to  the  breezy  symphony  that  so  often  stirred 
among  the  vine-leaves  ;  k~  to  meditate  an  essay  for  the 
Dial,  in  which  the  many  tongues  of  Nature  whispered 
mysteries,  and  seemed  to  ask  only  a  little  stronger  puff 
of  wind  to  speak  out  the  solution  of  its  riddle.  Being  so 
pervious  to  air-currents,  it  was  just  the  nook,  too,  for  the 
enjoymeni  of  a  cigar.  This  hermitage  was  my  one 
exclusive  possession  while  I  counted  myself  a  brother  of 
the  bocialists.  It  symbolized  my  individuality,  and  aided 
me  in  keeping  it  inviolate.  None  ever  found  me  out  in 
it,  except,  once,  a  squirrel.  I  brought  thither  no  guest, 
because,  after  Hollingsworth  failed  me,  there  was  no 
longer  the  man  alive  with  whom  I  could  think  of  sharing 
all.  So  there  I  used  to  sit,  owl-like,  yet  not  without  lib 
eral  and  hospitable  thoughts.  I  counted  the  innumer 
able  clusteis  of  my  vine,  and  fore-reckoned  the  abundance 
of  my  vintage.  It  gladdened  me  to  anticipate  the  sur 
prise  of  the  Community,  when,  like  an  allegorical  figure 
of  rich  October,  I  should  make  my  appearance,  with 
shoulders  bent  beneath  the  burthen  of  ripe  grapes,  and 
some  of  the  crushed  ones  crimsoning  my  brow  as  with  a 
blood-stain. 

Ascending  into  this  natural  turret,  I  peeped  in  turn 
out  of  several  of  its  small  windows.  The  pine-tree,  being 
ancient,  rose  high  above  the  rest  of  the  wood,  which  was 
of  comparatively  recent  growth.  Even  where  I  sat, 
about  midway  between  the  root  and  the  topmost  bough 
my  position  was  lofty  enough  to  serve  as  an  observatory, 
not  for  starry  investigations,  but  tor  those  sublunary 


(20  THE    BLTTHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

matters  in  which  lay  a  lore  as  infinite  as  that  of  th« 
planets.  Through  one  loop-hole  I  saw  the  river  lapsing 
calmly  onward,  while  in  the  meadow,  near  its  brink,  a 
few  of  the  brethren  \\ere  digging  peat  for  our  winter's 
tuel.  On  the  interior  cart-road  of  our  farm,  I  discerned 
Hollingsworth,  with  a  yoke  of  oxen  hitched  to  a  drag  of 
stones,  that  were  to  be  piled  into  a  fence,  on  which  we 
employed  ourselves  at  the  odd  intervals  of  other  labor. 
The  harsh  tones  of  his  voice,  shouting  to  the  sluggish 
steers,  made  me  sensible,  even  at  such  a  distance,  that 
he  was  ill  at  ease,  and  that  the  balked  philanthropist 
had  the  battle-spirit  in  his  heart. 

"  Haw,  Buck !  "  quoth  he.  "  Come  along  there,  ye 
.  izy  ones  !  What  are  ye  about,  now  ?  Gee  !  " 

"  Mankind,  in  Hollingsworth's  opinion,"  thought  1, 
14  is  but  another  yoke  of  oxen,  as  stubborn,  stupid,  and 
sluggish,  as  our  old  Brown  and  Bright.  He  vituperates 
us  aloud,  and  curses  us  in  his  heart,  and  will  begin  to 
prick  us  with  the  goad-stick,  by  and  by.  But  are  we 
his  oxen  ?  And  what  right  has  he  to  be  the  driver  ? 
Arid  why,  when  there  is  enough  else  to  do,  should  we 
waste  our  strength  in  dragging  home  the  ponderous  load 
nf  his  philanthropic  absurdities  ?  At  my  height  above 
the  earth,  the  whole  matter  looks  ridiculous !  " 

Turning  towards  the  farm-house,  I  saw  Priscilla  (for, 
though  a  great  way  off,  the  eye  of  faith  assured  me  that 
it  was  she)  sitting  at  Zenobia's  window,  and  making 
little  purses,  I  suppose ;  or,  perhaps,  mending  the  Com 
munity's  old  linen.  A  bird  flew  past  my  tree ;  and,  as  it 
clove  its  way  onward  into  the  sunny  atmosphere,  I  flung 
't  a  menage  for  Priscilla. 

u  Te.l  her,"  said  I  "  that  her  fragile  thread  of  life  liai 


COVERDALE'S  HERMITAGB  121 

jnext/.cably  knotted  itself  with  other  and  tougher  thready 
and  mo?t  likely  it  will  be  broken.  Tell  her  that  Zeno- 
oia  will  not  be  long  her  friend.  Say  that  Hollings- 
worth's  heart  is  on  fire  with  his  own  purpose,  but  icy 
for  ah  human  affection ;  and  that,  if  she  has  given  him 
her  love,  it  is  like  casting  a  flower  i^o  a  sepulchre. 
And  say  that  if  any  mortal  really  cares  Tor  her,  it  is 
i.iyself;  and  not  even  I,  for  her  realities,  —  poor  little 
seamstress,  as  Zenobia  rightly  called  her  !  —  but  for  the 
fancy-work  with  which  I  have  idly  decked  her  out ! " 

The  pleasant  scent  of  the  wood,  evolved  by  the  hot 
sun,  stole  up  to  my  nostrils,  as  if  I  had  been  an  idol  in 
its  niche.  Many  trees  mingled  their  fragrance  into  a 
thousand-fold  odor.  Possibly  there  was  a  sensual  influ 
ence  in  the  broad  light  of  noon  that  lay  beneath  me".  It 
may  have  been  the  cause,  hi  part,  that  I  suddenly  found 
myself  possessed  by  a  mood  of  disbelief  in  moral  beauty 
or  heroism,  and  a  conviction  of  the  folly  of  attempting  to 
benefit  the  world.  Our  especial  scheme  of  reform,  which, 
from  my  observatory,  I  could  take  in  with  the  bodily  eye, 
looked  so  ridiculous  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  laugh 
aloud. 

"  But  the  joke  is  a  little  too  heavy,"  thought  I.  "  if 
i  were  wise,  I  should  get  out  of  the  scrape  with  all  dili 
gence,  and  then  laugh  at  my  companiorifs  for  remaining 
in  it." 

WhiJ .  thus  musing,  I  heard,  with  perfect  distinctness, 
somewhere  in  the  wood  beneath,  the  peculiar  laugh 
which  I  have  described  as  one  of  the  disagieeable  char 
acteristics  of  Professor  Westervelt.  It  brought  my 
\houghts  back  to  our  recent  interview.  I  recogrized  as 
chiefly  due  to  this  man's  influence  the  sceptical  and 


!!  THE  BLITHEDALE  ROMANCE 

sneering  view  which,  just  now,  had  filled  my  mental 
vision,  in  regard  to  all  life's  better  purposes.  And  it 
was  through  his  eyes,  more  than  my  own,  that  I  was 
looking  at  Hollingsworth,  with  his  glorious,  if  impiacti- 
cabfe  dream,  arid  at  the  noble  earthliness  of  Zenobia's 
character,  and  even  at  Priscilla,  whose  impalpable 
grace  lay  so  singularly  between  disease  and  beauty. 
The  essential  charm  of  each  had  vanished.  There  are 
some  spheres  the  contact  with  which  inevitably  degrades 
the  high,  debases  the  pure,  deforms  the  beautiful.  It 
must  be  a  mind  of  uncommon  strength,  and  little  impres 
sibility,  that  can  permit  itself  the  habit  of  such  inter 
course,  and  not  be  permanently  deteriorated;  and  yet 
the  Professor's  tone  represented  that  of.  worldly  society 
at  large,  where  a  cold  scepticism  smothers  what  it  can 
of  our  spiritual  aspirations,  and  makes  the  rest  ridicu 
lous.  I  detested  this  kind  of  man;  and  all  the  more 
because  a  part  of  my  own  nature  showed  itself  respons 
ive  to  him. 

Voices  were  now  approaching  through  the  region  of 
the  wood  which  lay  in  the  vicinity  of  my  tree.  Soon  I 
caught  glimpses  of  two  figures  —  a  woman  and  a  man  — 
Zenobia  and  the  stranger  —  earnestly  talking  together 
as  they  ad'/anced. 

Zenobia  had  a  rich,  though  varying  color.  It  was, 
most  of  the  while,  a  flame,  and  anon  a  sudden  paleness. 
Her  eyes  glowed,  so  that  their  light  sometimes  flashed 
upward  to  me,  as  when  the  sun  throws  a  dazzle  from 
some  bright  object  on  the  ground.  Her  gestures  were 
free,  and  strikingly  impressive.  The  whole  woman  was 
alive  with  a  passionate  intensity,  which  I  now  perceived 
to  be  the  phase  in  which  her  beauty  culminated.  Any 


COVERDALE'S  HERMITAGE.  23 

passion  would  Jiave  become  her  well;  and  passioi.ata 
love,  perhaps,  the  best  of  all.  This  was  not  love,  but 
anger,  largely  intermixed  with  scorn.  Yet  the  idea 
strangely  forced  ilself  upon  me,  that  there  was  a  sort  of 
familiarity  between  these  two  companions,  necessarily 
the  result  of  an  intimate  love, —  on  Zenebia's  part,  at 
least, —  in  days  gone  by,  but  which  had  prolonged  itrelf 
into  as  intimate  a  hatred,  for  all  futurity.  As  they 
passed  among  the  trees,  reckless  as  her  movement  was, 
she  took  good  heed  that  even  the  hem  of  her  garment 
should  not  brush  against  the  stranger's  person.  I  won 
dered  whether  there  had  always  been  a  chasm,  guarded 
so  religiously,  betwixt  these  two. 

As  for  Westervelt,  he  was  not  a  whit  more  warmed 
by  Zenobia's  passion  than  a  salamander  by  the  heat  of 
its  native  furnace.  He  would  have  been  absolutely 
Statuesque,  save  for  a  look  of  slight  perplexity,  tinctured 
stiongly  with  derision.  It  was  a  crisis  in  which  his  intel 
lectual  perceptions  could  not  altogether  help  him  out. 
He  failed  to  comprehend,  and  cared  but  little  for  com 
prehending,  why  Zenobia  should  put  herself  into  such  a 
fume ;  but  satisfied  his  mind  that  it  was  all  folly,  and 
only  another  shape  of  a  woman's  manifold  absurdity, 
which  men  can  never  understand.  How  many  a 
woman's  evil  fate  has  yoked  her  with  a  man  like  this ! 
Nature  thrusts  some  of  us  into  the  world  miserably 
incomplete  on  the  emotional  side,  with  hardly  any  sen 
sibilities  except  what  pertain  to  us  as  animals.  No  pas 
sion,  save  of  the  senses;  no  holy  tenderness,  nor  the 
delicacy  that  results  from  this.  Externally  they  bear  a 
close  resemblance  to  other  men,  and  have  perhaps  all 
*ave  the  finest  grace ;  but  when  a  won'pn  wrecks  her 


1 24  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

s^f  on  such  a  being,  she  ultimately  finds  that  the  reai 
womanhood  within  her  has  no  corresponding  part  in 
him.  Her  deepest  voice  lacks  a  response ;  the  deeper 
her  cry,  the  more  dead  his  silence.  The  fault  may  be 
none  of  his ;  he  cannot  give  her  what  never  lived  within 
his  soul.  But  the  wretchedness  on  her  side,  and  the 
moral  deterioration  attendant  on  a  false  and  shallow 
life,  without  strength  enough  to  keep  itself  sweet,  are 
among  tfie  most  pitiable  wrongs  that  mortals  suffer. 

Now,  as  I  looked  down  from  my  upper  region  at  this 
man  and  woman,  —  outwardly  so  fair  a  sight,  and  wau 
dering  like  two  lovers  in  the  wood, —  I  imagined  that 
Zenobia,  at  an  earlier  period  of  youth,  might  have  fallen 
into  the  misfortune  above  indicated.  And  when  her 
passionate  womanhood,  as  was  inevitable,  had  discov 
ered  its  mistake,  there  had  ensued  the  character  of 
eccentricity  and  defiance  which  distinguished  the  more 
public  portion  of  her  life. 

Seeing  how  aptly  matters  had  chanced  thus  far,  1 
began  to  think  it  the  design  of  fate  to  let  me  into  all 
Zenobia's  secrets,  and  that  therefore  the  couple  would 
sit  down  beneath  my  tree,  and  carry  on  a  conversation 
which  would  leave  me  nothing  to  inquire.  No  doubt, 
however,  had  it  so  happened,  I  should  have  deemed 
myself  honorably  bound  to  warn  them  of  a  listener's 
presence,  by  flinging  down  a  handful  of  unripe  grapes,  or 
by  sending  an  unearthly  groan  out  of  my  hiding-place, 
as  if  this  were  one  of  the  trees  of  Dante's  ghostly  forest, 
But  real  life  never  arranges  itself  exactly  like  a  romance 
In  the  first  place,  they  did  not  sit  down  at  all.  Secondly 
even  while  they  passed  beneath  the  tree,  Zenobia's  utter 
ance  was  so  hasty  and  broken,  and  Westervelt's  so  ceo 


COVERDALE'S  HERMITAGE.  125 

*ad  low,  that  1  hardly  could  make  out  an  intelligible 
sentence,  <  n  either  side.  What  I  seem  to  remember,  1 
yot  suspect,  may  have  been  patched  together  by  mj 
fancy,  in  brooding  over  the  matter,  afterwards. 

"  Why  not  fling  the  girl  oflf,"  said  Westervelt,  "  and 
let  her  go  ? " 

"  She  clung  to  me  from  the  first,"  replied  Zenobia. 
"  I  neither  know  nor  care  what  it  is  in  me  that  so 
attaches  her.  But  she  loves  me,  and  I  will  not  fail 
her." 

"  She  will  plague  you,  then,"  said  he,  "  in  more  ways 
than  one." 

"  The  poor  child ! "  exclaimed  Zenobia.  "  She  can 
do  me  neither  good  nor  harm.  How  should  she  ?" 

I  know  not  what  reply  Westervelt  whispered ;  nor  did 
Zenobia's  subsequent  exclamation  give  me  any  clue, 
except  that  it  evidently  inspired  her  with  horror  and 
disgust. 

"  With  what  kind  of  a  being  am  I  linked  ?"  cried  she, 
"If  my  Creator  cares  aught  for  my  soul,  let  him  release 
me  from  this  miserable  bond ! " 

"  I  did  not  think  it  weighed  so  heavily,"  said  her 
companion. 

"  Nevertheless,"  answered  Zenobia,  "  it  will  strangle 
me,  at  last ! " 

And  then  I  heard  her  utter  a  helpless  sort  of  moan  j 
a  sound  which,  struggling  out  of  the  heart  of  a  person 
of  her  pride  and  strength,  affected  me  more  than  if  she 
ha-l  made  the  wood  dolorousl  f  vocal  with  a  thousand 
shrieks  and  wails. 

Other  mysterious  words,  besides  what  are  above 
written,  they  spoke  together ;  but  I  understood  no  more 


J26  THE     BLTTHFrALE    ROMANCE. 

and  even  question  whether  I  fairly  understood  so  hiuch 
as  this.  By  long  brooding  over  our  recollections,  we 
subtilize  them  into  something  akin  to  imaginary  stuff, 
and  hardly  capable  of  being  distinguished  from  it.  In  a 
few  moments,  they  were  completely  beyond  ear-shot.  A 
breeze  stirred  after  them,  and  awoke  the  leafy  tongues 
of  the  surrounding  trees,  which  forthwith  tsegan  to 
babble,  as  if  innumerable  gossips  had  all  at  once  got 
wind  of  Zenobia's  secret.  But,  as  the  breeze  grew 
stronger,  its  voice  among  the  branches  was  as  if  it  said 
"  Hush !  Hush ! "  and  I  resolved  that  to  no  mortal 
would  I  disclose  what  I  had  heard.  And,  though  there 
might  be  room  for  casuistry,  sich,  I  conceive,  is  the 
most  eauitable  rule  in  all  similar  conjunctures 


XIII. 

ZENCBIA'S  LEGEND. 

THE  illustrious  Society  of  Blithedale,  though  it  toiled 
in  downright  earnest  for  the  good  of  mankind,  yet  not 
unfrequently  illuminated  its  laborious  ufe  with  an  after 
noon  or  evening  of  pastime.  Picnics  under  the  trees 
were  considerably  in  vogue ;  and,  within  doors,  frag 
mentary  bits  of  theatrical  performance,  such  as  single 
acts  of  tragedy  or  comedy,  or  dramatic  proverbs  and 
charades.  Zenobia,  besides,  was  fond  of  giving  us  read 
ings  from  Shakspeare,  and  often  with  a  depth  of  tragic 
power,  or  breadth  of  comic  effect,  that  made  one  feel  it 
an  intolerable  wrong  to  the  world  that  she  did  not  at 
once  go  upon  the  stage.  Tableaux  vivants  were  another 
of  our  occasional  modes  of  amusement,  in  which  scarlet 
shawls,  old  silken  robes,  ruffs,  velvets,  furs,  and  all  kind* 
of  miscellaneous  trumpery,  converted  our  familiar  com 
panions  into  the  people  of  a  pictorial  world.  We  had 
been  thus  engaged  on  the  evening  after  the  incident 
narrated  in  the  last  chapter.  Several  splendid  works 
of  art  —  either  arranged  after  engravings  from  the  eld 
masters,  or  original  illustrations  of  scenes  in  history  or 
romance  —  had  been  presented,  and  we  were  earnestly 
entreating  Zenobia  for  more. 

She  stood,  with  a  meditative  air,  holding  a  large 
piece  of  gauze,  or  some  such  ethereal  stuff,  as  if  consid 
ering  what  picture  should  n^xt  occupy  the  frame ;  while 


128  THE  BMTHEDALE.  ROMANCE. 

at  her  feet  lay  a  heap  of  many-of»lored  garments,  \vhich 
her  quick  fancy  and  magic  skill  could  so  easily  c  onvert 
into  gorgeous  draperies  for  heroes  and  princesses. 

"I  am  getting  weary  of  this,"  said  she,  after  a 
moment's  thought.  "  Oar  own  features,  ai  d  our  own 
figures  and  airs,  show  a  little  too  intrusively  through  all 
the  characters  we  assume.  We  have  so  much  famil 
iarity  with  one  another's  realities,  that  we  cannot  remove 
ourselves,  at  pleasure,  into  an  imaginary  sphere.  Let 
us  have  no  more  pictures  to-night;  but,  to  make  you 
what  poor  amends  I  can,  how  would  you  like  to  have 
me  trump  up  a  wild,  spectral  legend,  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment  ? " 

Zenobia  had  the  gift  of  telling  a  fanciful  little  story, 
off-hand,  in  a  way  that  made  it  greatly  more  effective 
than  it  was  usually  found  to  be  when  she  afterwards 
elaborated  the  same  production  with  her  pen.  Her  pro 
posal,  therefore,  was  greeted  with  acclamation. 

"  O,  a  story,  a  story,  by  all  means !  "  cried  the  young 
girls.  "  No  matter  how  marvellous ;  we  will  believe  it, 
every  word.  And  let  it  be  a  ghost-story,  if  you  please.' 

"  No,  not  exactly  a  ghost-story,"  answeied  Zenobia  ; 
1  but  something  so  nearly  like  it  that  you  shall  hardly 
tell  the  difference.  And,  Priscilla,  stand  you  before  me, 
where  I  may  look  at  you,  and  get  my  inspiration  out  of 
your  eyes.  They  are  very  deep  and  dreamy  to-night." 

I  know  not  whether  the  following  version  of  her  stoi y 
will  retain  any  portion  of  its  pristine  character ;  but,  as 
Zenobia  told  it  wildly  and  rapidly,  hesitating  at  no 
extravagance,  ana  dashing  at  absurdities  which  I  am 
too  timorous  to  repeat,  —  giving  it  the  varied  empnasis 
of  her  inimitable  voice,  and  the  pictorial  iLustration  of 


"SKI  OBIA  S    LEGEND.  129 

hoi  niobiie  face,  wnile  through  it  all  we  caught  the 
freshest  aroma  of  the  thoughts,  as  they  came  bubbling 
out  of  her  mind,  —  thus  narrated,  and  thus  heard,  the 
egend  seemed  quite  a  remarkable  affair.  I  scarcely 
knew,  at  the  time,  whether  she  intended  us  to  laugh  or 
oe  more  seriously  impressed.  From  beginning  to  end, 
it  was  undeniable  nonsense,  but  not  necessarily  the 
worse  for  that. 


THE  SILVERY  VEIL. 

You  have  heard,  my  dear  friends,  of  the  VeJec. 
Lady,  who  grew  suddenly  so  very  famous,  a  few  months 
ago.  And  have  you  never  thought  how  remarkable  it 
was  that  this  marvellous  creature  should  vanish,  all  at 
once,  while  her  renown  was  on  the  increase,  before  the 
public  had  grown  weary  of  her,  and  when  the  enigma 
of  her  character,  instead  of  being  solved,  presented  *tself 
more  mystically  at  every  exhibition  ?  Her  last  appear 
ance,  as  you  know,  was  before  a  crowded  audience. 
The  next  evening,  —  although  the  bills  had  announced 
her,  at  the  corner  of  every  street,  in  red  letters  of  a 
gigantic  size,  —  there  was  no  Veiled  Lady  to  be  seen ! 
Now,  listen  to  my  simple  little  tale,  and  you  shall  hear 
the  very  latest  incident  in  the  known  life  —  (if  life  it  may 
be  called,  which  seemed  to  nave  no  more  reality  than 
the  candle-light  image  of  one's  self  which  peeps  at  us 
outside  of  a  dark  window-pane)  —  the  life  of  this  shadowy 
ohenomenon. 

A  party  of  young  gentlemen,  you  are  to  understand. 
were  enjoyii^g  themselves,  one  afternoon,  —  as 
9 


IJU  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

gentlemen  are  sometimes  fond  cf  doing,  —  ovei  a  bottle 
or  two  of  champagne ;  and,  among  other  ladies  less  mys- 
terio  is,  the  subject  of  the  Veiled  Lady,  as  was  very 
natural,  happened  to  come  up  before  them  for  discussion. 
She  rose,  as  it  were,  with  the  sparkling  effervescence  of 
their  wine,  and  appeared  in  a  more  airy  and  fantastic 
light  on  account  of  the  medium  through  which  they 
saw  her.  They  repeated  to  one  another,  between  jest 
and  earnest,  all  the  wild  stories  that  were  in  vogue ;  nor, 
I  presume,  did  they  hesitate  to  add  any  small  circum 
stance  that  the  inventive  whim  of  the  moment  might 
suggest,  to  heighten  the  marvellousness  of  their  theme. 

"  But  what  an  audacious  report  was  that,"  observed 
one,  "  which  pretended  to  assert  the  identity  of  this 
strange  creature  with  a  young  lady,"  —  and  here  he 
mentioned  her  name,  —  "  the  daughter  of  one  of  our 
most  distinguished  families !  " 

"  Ah,  there  is  more  in  that  story  than  can  well  be 
accounted  for,"  remarked  another.  "  I  have  it,  on  good 
authority,  that  the  young  lady  in  question  is  invariably 
out  of  sight,  and  not  to  be  traced,  even  by  her  own 
family,  at  the  hours  when  the  Veiled  Lady  is  before  the 
public ;  nor  can  any  satisfactory  explanation  be  given  of 
Her  disappearance.  And  just  look  at  the  tHng:  Her 
irother  is  a  young  fellow  of  spirit.  He  cannot  but  be 
aware  of  these  rumors  in  reference  to  his  sister.  Why, 
then,  does  he  not  come  forward  to  defend  her  character, 
unless  he  is  conscious  that  an  investigation  would  only 
make  the  matter  worse  ? " 

!t  is  essential  to  the  purposes  of  my  legend  to  distin 
guish  one  of  thr/se  young  gentlemen  from  his  com 
panic ns ;  so,  for  the  sake  of  a  soft  arid  pretty  name 


ENOBT.Ao    LEGENE  131 

suck  &3  we  of  the  literary  sisterhood  invariably  besto* 
apon  our  heroes).  I  deem  it  fit  to  call  him  Theodore. 

"  Pshaw !  "  exclaimed  Theodore  "  her  brother  is  no 
such  fool !  Nobody,  unless  his  brun  be  as  full  of  bub 
bles  as  this  wine,  can  seriously  think  of  crediting  that 
ridiculous  rumor.  Why,  if  my  senses  did  not  play  me 
false  (which  never  was  the  case  yet),  I  affirm  that  I  sav* 
that  very  lady,  last  evening,  at  the  exhibition,  while  thi? 
veiled  phenomenon  was  playing  off  her  juggling  tricks  . 
What  can  you  say  to  that  1 " 

"  O,  it  was  a  spectral  illusion  that  you  saw,"  replied 
his  friends,  with  a  general  laugh.  "  The  Veiled  Lady  is 
quite  up  to  such  a  thing." 

However,  as  the  above-mentioned  fable  could  not  hold 
its  ground  against  Theodore's  downright  refutation, 
they  went  on  to  speak  of  other  stories  which  the  wild 
babble  of  the  town  had  set  afloat.  Some  upheld  that 
the  veil  covered  the  most  beautiful  countenance  in  the 
world ;  others,  —  and  certainly  with  more  reason,  con 
sidering  the  sex  of  the  Veiled  Lady,  —  that  the  face  was 
the  most  hideous  and  horrible,  and  that  this  was  her 
sole  motive  for  hiding  it.  It  was  the  face  of  a  corpse ;  it 
was  the  head  of  a  skeleton ;  it  was  a  monstrous  visage, 
with  snaky  locks,  like  Medusa's,  and  one  great  red  eye 
in  the  centre  of  the  forehead.  Again,  it  was.  affirmed 
that  there  was  no  single  and  unchangeable  set  of 
features  beneath  the  veil ;  but  that  whosoever  should  be 
bold  enough  to  lift  it  would  behold  the  features  of  that 
oerson,  in  all  the  world,  who  was  destined  to  be  his 
fate ;  perhaps  he  would  be  greeted  by  the  tender  smile 
of  the  woman  whom  he  lived,  or,  quite  as  probably  the 
Deadly  scowl  of  his  bitterest  enemy  would  thi  vw  a  bhghi 


13^  THE    BLITHEDALt    ROMANCE 

aver  his  life.  They  quoted,  moreover,  thk  startling 
explination  of  the  whole  affair:  that  the  magician  who 
exhibited  the  Veiled  Lady  —  and  who,  by  the  by,  was  the 
handsomest  man  in  the  whole  world  —  had  bartered  his 
own  soul  for  seven  years'  possession  of  a  familiar  fiend, 
and  that  the  last  year  of  the  contract  was  wearing 
towards  its  close. 

If  it  were  worth  our  while,  I  could  keep  vou  till  an 
hour  beyond  midnight  listening  to  a  thousand  such 
absurdities  as  these.  But  finally  our  friend  Theodore, 
vvho  prided  himself  upon  his  common  sense,  found  the 
matter  getting  quite  beyond  his  patience. 

"  I  offer  any  wager  you  like,"  cried  he,  setting  down 
his  glass  so  forcibly  as  to  break  the  stem  of  it,  "  that  this 
very  evening  I  find  out  the  mystery  of  the  Veiled  Lady ! " 

Young  men,  I  am  told,  boggle  at  nothing,  over  their 
wine ;  so,  after  a  little  more  talk,  a  wager  of  consider 
able  amount  was  actually  laid,  the  money  staked,  and 
Theodore  left  to  choose  his  own  method  oi  settling  the 
dispute. 

How  he  managed  it  I  know  not,  nor  is  it  of  any 
great  importance  to  this  veracious  legend.  The  most 
natural  way,  to  be  sure,  was  by  bribing  the  door-keeper, 
—  or  possibly  he  preferred  clambering  in  at  the  win 
dow.  But,  at  any  rate,  that  very  evening,  while  the 
exhibition  was  going  forward  in  the  hall,  Theodore  con- 
ti.'ved  to  gain  admittance  into  the  private  withdrawing- 
ro^m  whither  the  Veiled  Lady  was  accustomed  'o  retire 
at  the  close  of  her  performances.  There  he  waited 
listening,  I  suppose,  to  the  stifled  hum  of  the  great  audi 
ence ;  and  no  doubt  he  could  distinguish  the  deep  tones 
of  the  magician,  causing  the  wonders  that  h';  wroug-'u 


ZENOBIA'S  LEGEND.  133 

ii»  apjrear  ikw,/e  dark  and  intricate,  by  his  mystic  pretence 
•»f  an  explanation.  Perhaps,  too,  in  the  intervals  of  the 
wild,  breezy  music  which  accompanied  the  exhibition, 
he  might  hear  the  low  voice  of  the  Veiled  Lady,  convey 
ing  her  sibylline  responses.  Firm  as  Theodore's  nerves 
might  be,  and  much  as  he  prided  himself  on  his  sturdy 
perception  of  realities,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  his 
heart  throbbed  at  a  little  more  than  its  ordinary  rate. 

Theodore  concealed  himself  behind  a  screen.  In  due 
iime,  the  perform  ince  was  brought  to  a  close,  and, 
whether  the  door  was  softly  opened,  or  whether  her 
bodiless  presence  came  through  the  wall,  is  more  than  I 
can  say,  but,  all  at  once,  without  the  young  man's 
knowing  how  it  happened,  a  veiled  figure  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  It  was  one  thing  to  be  in  presence 
rf  this  mystery  in  the  hall  of  exhibition,  where  the 
warm,  dense  life  of  hundreds  of  other  mortals  kept  up 
the  beholder's  courage,  and  distributed  her  influence 
among  so  many ;  it  was  another  thing  to  be  quite  alone 
with  her,  and  that,  too,  with  a  hostile,  or,  at  least,  an 
unauthorized  and  unjustifiable  purpose.  I  rather  imagine 
that  Theodore  now  began  to  be  sensible  of  something 
more  serious  in  his  enterprise  than  he  had  been  quite 
aware  of,  while  he  sat  with  his  boon-companions  over 
their  sparkling  wine. 

Very  strange,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  the  move  nent 
with  which  the  figure  floated  to  and  fro  over  the  carpet, 
with  the  silvery  veil  covering  her  from  head  to  foot ;  5=0 
impalpable,  so  ethereal,  so  without  substance,  as  the 
texture  seemed,  yet  hiding  her  every  outline  in  an  im 
penetrability  like  that  of  midnight.  Surely,  fche  did  not 
walk !  She  floated,  and  flitted,  and  hovered  about  the 


134  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

"oom  ;  —  no  sound  of  a  footstep,  no  perceptible  motion 
of  a  liir.b ;  —  it  was  as  if  a  wandering  breeze  wafted 
her  before  it,  at  its  own  wild  and  gentle  pleasure.  But 
by  and  by,  a  purpose  began  to  be  discernible,  throughout 
the  seeming  vagueness  of  her  unrest.  She  was  in 
quest  of  something.  Could  it  be  that  a  subtile  pre^en 
timent  had  informed  her  of  the  young  man's  presence  ? 
And  if  so,  did  the  Veiled  Lady  seek  or  did  she  shun 
him?  The  doubt  in  Theodore's  mind  was  speedily 
resolved;  for,  after  a  moment  or  two  of  these  erratic 
flutterings,  she  advanced  more  decidedly,  and  stood 
motionless  before  the  screen. 

"  Thou  art  here !  "  said  a  soft,  low  voice.  "  Come 
forth,  Theodore ! " 

Thus  summoned  by  his  name,  Theodore,  as  a  man  of 
courage,  had  no  choice.  He  emerged  from  his  conceal 
ment,  and  presented  himself  before  the  Veiled  Lady, 
with  the  wine-flush,  it  may  be,  quite  gone  out  of  his 
cheeks. 

"  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? "  she  inquired,  with 
the  same  gentle  composure  that  was  in  her  former 
utterance. 

"Mysterious  creature,"  replied  Theodore,  "I  would 
know  who  and  what  you  are  !  " 

"  My  lips  are  forbidden  to  betray  the  secret/'  said  the 
Veiled  Lady. 

"  At  whatever  risk,  I  must  discover  it,"  lejoined 
Theodore. 

"  Thei, '  said  the  Mystery,  "  there  is  no  way,  save  to 
ift  my  veil." 

Adi  Theodore,  part'y  recovering  his  audacity,  stept 
fr  rg  r.  th  ->t?.-i  v.  as  the  Veiled  Lady  hau 


ZENOBIA'S    LEGEND.  135 

suggested  But  she  floated  backward  to  the  opposite 
side  o:  the  room,  as  if  the  young  man's  breath  had  pos 
sessed. power  enough  to  waft  her  away. 

"  Pause,  one  little  instant,"  said  the  soft,  low  voice, 
"  and  learn  the  conditions  of  what  thou  art  so  bold  to 
undertake !  Thou  canst  go  hence,  and  think  of  me  no 
more  ;  or,  at  thy  option,  thou  canst  lift  this  mysterious 
veil,  beneath  which  I  am  a  sad  and  lonely  prisoner,  in  a 
bondage  which  is  worse  to  me  than  death.  But,  before 
raising  it,  I  entreat  thee,  in  all  maiden  modesty,  to  bend 
forward  and  impress  a  kiss  where  my  breath  stirs 
the  veil ;  and  my  virgin  lips  shall  come  forward  to  meet 
thy  lips ;  and  from  that  instant,  Theodore,  thou  shalt  be 
mine,  and  I  thine,  with  never  more  a  veil  between  us. 
And  all  the  felicity  of  earth  and  of  the  future  world  shall 
be  thine  and  mine  together.  So  much  may  a  maiden 
say  behind  the  veil.  If  thou  shrinkest  from  this,  there 
is  yet  another  way." 

"  And  what  is  that  ?  "  asked  Theodore. 

"  Dost  thou  hesitate,"  said  the  Veiled  Lady,  "  to 
pledge  thyself  to  me,  by  meeting  these  lips  of  mine, 
while  the  veil  )  4t  hides  my  face  ?  Has  not  thy  heart 
recognized  me ?  Dost  thou  come  hither,  not  in  holy 
faith,  nor  with  a  pure  and  generous  purpose,  but  in 
scornful  scepticism  and  idle  curiosity?  Still,  thou 
mayest  lift  the  veil !  But,  from  that  instant,  Theodore. 
I  am  doomed  to  be  thy  evil  fate ;  nor  wilt  thou  ever 
taste  another  breath  of  happiness  !  " 

There  was  a  shade  of  inexpressille  sadness  in  the 
utterance  of  these  last  words.  But  Theodore,  whose 
nalaral  tendency  was  towards  scepticism,  felt  himself 
almost  injured  and  insulted  b}  the  Vuled  Lidy's  pro 


136  THE    BLITHE  DALE    RC  MANGE. 

i»osal  that  k?  should  pledge  himself,  for  life  and  eternity 
to  so  questionable  a  creature  as  herself ;  or  even  that  she 
should  suggest  an  inconsequential  kiss,  taking  into  /lew 
the  probability  that  her  lace  was  non>  of  the  mosf 
bewitching.  A  delightful  idea,  truly,  that  he  should 
salute  the  lips  of  a  dead  girl,  or  the  jaws  of  a  skeleton, 
or  the  grinning  cavity  of  a  monster's  month  !  Even 
should  she  prove  a  comely  maiden  enough  in  other  re 
spects,  the  odds  were  ten  to  one  that  her  teeth  were  defect 
ive  ;  a  terrible  drawback  on  the  delectableness  of  a  kiss. 

"  Excuse  me,  fair  lady,"  said  Theodore,  —  and  I 
think  he  nearly  burst  into  a  laugh,  —  "  if  I  prefer  to  lift 
the  veil  first;  and  for  this  affair  of  the  kiss,  ve  may 
decide  upon  it  afterwards." 

"  Thou  hast  made  thy  choice,"  said  the  sv  eet,  sad 
voice  behind  the  veil ;  and  there  seemed  a  terser  but 
unresentful  sense  of  wrong  done  to  womanhood  by  the 
young  man's  contemptuous  interpretation  of  h<^  offer. 
"  I  must  not  counsel  thee  to  pause,  although  thy  f- 1+.  is 
still  in  thine  own  hand  !  " 

Grasping  at  the  veil,  he  flung  it  upward,  and  cau^V  i 
glimpse  of  a  pale,  lovely  face  beneath  ;  just  one  mom^.j>*- 
ary  glimpse,  and  then  the  apparition  vanished,  -ind  thr 
silvery  veil  fluttered  slowly  down  and  lay  upon  the 
floor.  Theodore  was  alone.  Our  legend  leaves  him 
there.  His  retribution  was,  to  pine  for  ever  and  ever 
foi  another  sight  of  that  dirr..,  mournful  face,  —  which 
might  have  been  his  life-long  household  fireside  joy,  — 
to  desire,  and  waste  life  in  a  feverish  quest,  and  nevel: 
meet  it  more. 

But  what,  in  good  sooth,  had  become  01  th*  Voiletf 
1  -.dy  1  Ha  1  all  her  existence  been  comprehended  witV 


ZENOBIAS    LEGEND.  137 

m  thai  mysterious  veil,  and  was  she  now  annihilated  1 
Or  was  she  a  spirit,  with  a  heavenly  essence,  but  which 
might  have  been  tamed  down  to  human  bliss,  had  Theo 
dore  been  brave  and  true  enough  to  claim  her  ?  Hearken, 
my  sweet  friends,  —  and  hearken,  dear  Priscilla,  -  and 
you  shall  learn  the  little  more  that  Zenobia  can  tell  you. 

Just  at  the  moment,  so  far  as  can  be  ascertained, 
when  the  Veiled  Lady  vanished,  a  maiden,  pale  and 
shadowy,  rose  up  amid  a  knot  of  visionary  people,  who 
were  seeking  for  the  better  life.  She  was  sc  gentle  and 
so  sad,  —  a  nameless  melancholy  gave  her  such  hold 
upon  their  sympathies,  —  that  they  never  thought  of 
questioning  whence  she  came.  She  might  have  here 
tofore  existed,  or  her  thin  substance  might  have  been 
moulded  out  of  air  at  the  very  instant  when  they  first 
beheld  her.  It  was  all  one  to  them  ;  they  took  her  to 
their  hearts.  Among  them  was  a  lady,  to  whom,  more 
than  to  all  the  rest,  this  pale,  mysterious  girl  attached 
herself. 

But  one  morning  the  lady  was  wandering  in  the 
woods,  and  there  met  her  a  figure  in  an  oriental  robe, 
with  a  dark  beard,  and  holding  in  his  hand  a  silvery 
veil.  He  motioned  her  to  stay.  Being  a  woman  of 
some  nerve,  she  did  not  shriek,  nor  run  away,  nor  faint, 
as  many  ladies  would  have  been  apt  to  do,  but  stood 
quietly,  and  bade  him  speak.  The  truth  was,  she  had 
seen  his  face  before,  but  had  never  feared  it,  although 
she  knew  him  to  be  a  terribie  magician. 

"  Lady,"  said  he,  with  a  warning  gesture,  "  you  are  in 
peril ! " 

'•  Peril !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  Ar  d  of  what  nature  ? " 

"  There    3  a  certain  maiien,"  replied  the  magiciin, 


138  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

"  who  Has  come  out  of  the  realm  of  mystery,  arid 
herself  your  most  intimate  companion.  Now,  the  fates 
have  so  ordained  it,  that^  whether  by  her  own  will  or  no 
this  stranger  is  your  deadliest  enemy.  In  love,  in 
worldly  fortune,  in  all  your  pursuit  of  happiness,  she  is 
doomed  to  fling  a  blight  over  your  prospects.  There, 
is  but  one  possibility  of  thwarting  her  disastrous  in 
fluence." 

"  Then  tell  me  that  one  method,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Take  this  veil,"  he  answered,  holding  forth  the  sil 
very  texture.  "  It  is  a  spell ;  it  is  a  powerful  enchant 
ment,  which  I  wrought  for  her  sake,  and  beneath  which 
she  was  once  my  prisoner.  Throw  it,  at  unawares,  over 
the  head  of  this  secret  foe,  stamp  your  foot,  and  cry, 
'  Arise,  Magician,  here  is  the  Veiled  Lady  ! '  and  imme 
diately  I  will  rise  up  through  the  earth,  and  seize  her ; 
and  from  that  moment  you  are  safe  !  " 

So  the  lady  took  the  silvery  veil,  which  was  like 
woven  air,  or  like  some  substance  airier  than  nothing, 
and  that  would  float  upward  and  be  lost  among  the 
clouds,  were  she  once  to  let  it  go.  Eeturning  home 
ward,  she  found  the  shadowy  girl,  amid  the  knot  of 
visionary  transcendentalists,  who  were  still  seeking  for 
the  better  life.  She  was  joyous  now,  and  had  a  rose- 
bvoom  in  her  cheeks,  and  was  one  of  the  prettiest  crea 
tures,  and  seemed  one  of  the  happiest,  that  the  world 
could  show.  But  the  lady  stole  noiselessly  behind  her 
and  threw  the  veil  over  her  head.  As  the  slight,  ethe 
real  texture  sank  inevitably  down  over  her  figure,  the 
poor  gir  strove  to  raise  it,  and  met  her  dear  friend's 
eyes  with  one  glance  of  mortal  terror,  and  deep,  deep 
reproach  li  could  not  change  her  puipose. 


ZENOBIA'S  LEGEND.  139 

"  Ariso,  Magician  !  "  she  exclaimed,  stamping  hei  foot 
apon  the  earth.  "  Here  is  the  Veiled  Lady  !  " 

At  the  word,  uprose  the  bearded  man  in  the  oriental 
robes,  —  the  beautiful,  the  Uirk  magician,  who  had 
bartered  away  his  soul !  He  threw  his  arms  around 
the  Veiled  Lady,  and  she  was  his  bond-slave  forever- 
more  ' 


Zenobia,  all  this  while,  had  been  holding  the  piece  oi 
gauze,  and  so  managed  it  as  greatly  to  increase  the 
dramatic  effect  of  the  legend  at  those  points  where  the 
magic  veil  was  to  be  described.  Arriving  at  the  catas 
trophe,  and  uttering  the  fatal  words,  she  flung  the  gauze 
over  Priscilla's  head ;  and  for  an  instant  her  auditors 
held  their  breath,  half  expecting,  I  verily  believe,  that 
the  magician  would  start  up  through  the  floor,  and  cany 
off  our  poor  little  friend,  before  our  eyes. 

As  for  Priscilla,  she  stood  droopingly  in  the  midst  of 
us,  making  no  attempt  to  remove  the  veil. 

"  How  do  you  find  yourself,  my  love  ?  "  said  Zenobia, 
i  tfting  a  corner  of  the  gauze,  and  peeping  beneath  it, 
with  a  mischievous  smile.  "  Ah,  the  dear  little  soul! 
Why,  she  is  really  going  to  faint !  Mr.  Coverdale,  Mr, 
Coverdale,  pray  bring  a  glass  of  water  !  " 

Her  nerves    being   none    of  the    strongest,    Priscilla 
hardly  recovered  her  eouanimity  during  the  rest  cf  the 
evening.     This,   to   be   <nire,   was   a  great   pitv;    but 
nevertheless,  we  thought  if   a  very  bright  idea  of  Zeiw 
bia'a  to  bring  her  legend  to  so  effective  a  conclusion. 


XIV. 

ELIOT'S  PULPIT. 

OUR  Sundays,  at  Blithedale,  were  not  ordinarily  kept 
with  such  rigid  observance  as  might  have  befitted  the 
descendants  of  the  Pilgrims, whose  high  enterprise,  ar  we 
sometimes  flattered  ourselves,  we  had  taken  up,  and  were 
carrying  it  onward  and  aloft,  to  a  point  which  they  never 
dreamed  of  attaining. 

On  that  hallowed  day,  it  is  true,  we  rested  from  our 
labors.  Our  oxen,  relieved  from  their  week-day  yoke, 
roamed  at  large  through  the  pasture ;  each  yoke-fellow, 
however,  keeping  close  beside  his  mate,  and  continuing 
to  acknowledge,  from  the  force  of  habit  and  sluggish 
sympathy,  the  union  which  the  taskmaster  had  imposed 
for  his  own  hard  ends.  As  for  us  human  yoke-fellows, 
chosen  companions  of  toil,  whose  hoes  had  clinked 
together  throughout  the  week,  we  wandered  off,  in  vari 
ous  directions,  to  enjoy  our  interval  of  repose.  Some,  I 
believe,  went  devoutly  to  the  village  church.  Others,  it 
may  be,  ascended  a  city  or  a  country  pulpit,  wearing  the 
clerical  robe  with  so  much  dignity  that  you  would 
scarcely  have  suspected  me  yeoman's  frock  to  have  been 
flung  off  only  since  milking-time.  Others  took  long 
rambles  among  the  rustic  lanes  and  by-paths,  pausing  to 
took  at  black  old  farm-houses,  with  their  sloping  roofs ; 
%nd  at  the  modem  cottage,  so  like  a  plaything  that  i 
teerued  as  if  rra/  joy  or  sorrow  could  have  110  sccrx 


PULPIT.  141 


within  and  at  the  more  pretending  villa,  with  its  range 
of  wooden  columns,  supporting  the  needless  insolence  of 
a  groat  portico.  Some  betook  themselves  into  the  wide, 
dusky  barn,  and  lay  there  for  hours  together  on  the 
odorous  hay;  while  the  sunstreaks  and  the  shadows 
strove  together,  —  these  to  ^nake  the  barn  solemn,  those 
to  make  it  cheerful,  —  ar  i  both  were  conquerors;  and 
the  swallows  twittered  a  cheery  anthem,  flashing  into 
sight,  or  vanishing,  as  they  darted  to  and  fro  among  the 
golden  rules  of  sunshine.  And  others  went  a  little  way 
into  the  woods,  and  threw  themselves  on  mother  earth, 
pillowing  their  heads  on  a  heap  of  moss,  the  green  decay 
of  an  old  log;  and,  dropping  asleep,  the  humble-bees 
and  mosquitoes  sung  and  buzzed  about  their  ears,  caus 
ing  the  slumberers  to  twitch  and  start,  without  awak 
ening. 

With  Hollingsworth,  Zenobia,  Priscilla  and  myself,  it 
grew  to  be  a  custom  to  spend  the  Sabbath  afternoon  at  a 
certain  rock.  It  wae  known  to  us  under  the  name  of 
El  lot's  pulpit,  from  a  tradition  that  the  venerable  Apostle 
Eliot  had  preached  there,  two  centuries  gone  by,  to  an 
Indian  auditory.  The  old  pine  forest,  through  which  the 
apostle's  voice  was  wont  to  sound,  had  fallen,  an  imme 
morial  time  ago.  But  the  soil,  being  of  the  rudest  and 
most  broken  surface,  had  apparently  never  been  brought 
under  tillage;  other  growths,  maple,  and  beech,  and 
birch,  had  succeeded  to  the  primeval  trees  ;  so  that  it 
vva.i  still  as  wild  a  tract  of  woodland  as  the  great-great- 
great-great-grandson  of  one  of  Eliot's  Indians  (had  any 
such  posterity  been  in  existence)  could  have  desired, 
for  the  site  and  shelter  of  his  wig-vam.  These  after 
growths,  indeed,  lose  the  stately  solemnity  of  the  original 


142  HIE    BLITHEPALE    ROMANCE. 

iore<st.  If  left  in  due  neglect,  however,  they  run  into  an 
entanglement  of  softer  wildness,  among  the  rustling 
leaves  of  which  the  sun  can  scatter  cneerfulness  as  it 
never  could  among  the  dark-browed  pines. 

The  rock  itself  rose  some  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  a  shat> 
tered  granite  boulder,  or  heap  of  boulders,  with  an  irreg* 
ular  outline  and  rnany  fissures,  out  of  which  sprang 
shrubs,  bushes,  and  even  trees ;  as  if  the  scanty  soil 
within  those  crevices  were  sweeter  to  their  roots  than 
any  other  earth.  At  the  base  of  the  pulpit,  the  broken 
boulders  inclined  towards  each  other,  so  as  to  form  a 
shallow  cave,  within  which  our  little  party  had  some 
times  found  protection  from  a  summer  shower.  On  the 
threshold,  or  just  across  it,  grew  a  tuft  of  pale  colum 
bines,  in  their  season,  and  violets,  sad  and  shadowy 
recluses,  such  as  Priscilla  was  when  we  first  knew  her ; 
children  of  the  sun,  who  had  never  seen  their  father,  but 
dwelt  among  damp  mosses,  though  not  akin  to  them. 
At  the  summit,  the  rock  was  overshadowed  by  the  can 
opy  of  a  birch-tree,  which  served  as  a  sounding-board 
for  the  pulpit.  Beneath  this  shade  (with  my  eyes  of 
sense  half  shut,  and  those  of  the  imagination  widely 
opened)  I  used  to  see  the  holy  Apostle  of  the  Indians, 
with  the  sunlight  flickering  down  upon  him  through  the 
leaves,  and  glorifying  his  figure  as  with  the  half-per 
ceptible  glow  of  a  transfiguration. 

I  the  more  minutely  describe  the  rock,  and  this  little 
Sabbath  solitude,  because  Hollingsworth,  at  our  solic 
itation,  >->ften  ascended  Eliot's  pulpit,  and  not  exactly 
preached,  but  talked  to  us,  his  few  disciples,  in  a 
strain  that  rose  and  fell  as  naturally  as  the  wind's 
brenth  ainonjr  the  leaves  of  the  birch-tree.  No  othe 


ELIOT'S  PULPIT.  143 

of  man  has  ever  moved  me  like  some  of  those 
discourses.  It  seemed  most  pitiful  —  a  positive  calam 
ity  to  the  world  —  that  a  treasury  of  golden  thoughts 
should  thus  be  scattered,  by  the  liberal  handful,  down 
among  us  three,  when  a  thousand  hearers  might  have 
been  the  richer  for  them  ;  and  Hollingsworth  the  richer, 
likewise,  by  the  sympathy  of  multitudes.  After  speak 
ing  much  or  little,  as  might  happen,  he  would  descend 
from  his  gray  pulpit,  and  generally  fling  himself  at  full 
length  on  the  ground,  face  downward.  Meanwhile,  we 
talked  around  him,  on  such  topics  as  were  suggested  by 
the  discourse. 

Since  her  interview  with  Westervelt,  Zenobia's  con 
tinual  inequalities  of  temper  had  been  rather  difficult  foi 
her  friends  to  bear.  On  the  first  Sunday  after  that  inci 
dent,  when  Hollingsworth  had  clambered  down  from 
Eliot's  pulpit,  she  declaimed  with  g-eat  earnestness  and 
passion,  nothing  short  of  anger,  on  the  injustice  which 
the  world  did  to  women,  and  equa^.y  to  itself,  by  not 
allowing  them,  in  freedom  and  honor,  and  with  the  full 
est  welcome,  their  natural  utterance  in  public. 

"It  shall  not  always  be  so  !  "  cried  she.  "If  1  live 
another  year,  I  will  lift  up  my  own  voice  in  behalf  of 
woman's  wider  liberty ! " 

She,  perhaps,  saw  me  smile. 

"  What  matter  of  ridicule  do  you  find  in  this,  Miles 
Coverdale  ?  "  exclaimed  Zenobia,  with  a  flash  of  anger 
in  her  eyes.  "  That  smile,  permit  me  to  say,  makes  me 
cUr.picious  of  a  low  tone  of  feeling  and  shallow  thought 
It  is  my  belief  —  yes,  and  my  prophecy,  should  I  cue 
before  it  happens  —  that,  when  my  sex  shall  achieve  ita 
'ights  there  will  b«  ten  eloquent  v-'omen  where  there  is 


144  f-iE    BL1THEDALE    ROMANCE. 

now  one  eloquent  man.  Thus  far.  no  woman  in  the 
world  has  ever  ^*.ce  spoken  out  her  whole  heart  and 
her  whole  mind  The  mistrust  and  disapproval  of  the 
vast  bulk  of  society  th»  Jttles  us,  as  with  twr,  gigantic 
hands  at  our  throats  !  We  mumble  a  few  w^ak  words, 
and  leave  a  thousand  bett^  ones  unsaid.  You  let  us 
write  a  little,  it  is  true,  on  u  limited  range  of  subjects. 
But  the  pen  is  not  for  woman.  HLr  power  is  too  natural 
and  immediate.  It  is  with  the  living  voice  alone  that 
she  can  compel  the  world  to  recognizt  xae  light  of  her 
intellect  and  the  depth  of  her  heart !  " 

Now,  —  though  I  could  not  well  say  so  '-o  Zenobia,  — 
I  had  not  smiled  from  any  unworthy  estimate  >f  woman, 
or  in  denial  of  the  claims  which  she  is  beginning  to 
put  forth.  What  amused  and  puzzled  me  was  ti^e  fact, 
that  women,  however  intellectually  superior,  so  seMom 
disquiet  themselves  about  the  rights  or  wrongs  of  their 
sex,  unless  their  own  individual  affections  chance  to  iie 
in  idleness,  or  to  be  ill  at  ease.  They  are  not  natural 
••eformers,  but  become  such  by  the  pressure  of  excep* 
tional  misfortune.  I  could  measure  Zenobia's  inward 
trouble  by  the  animosity  with  which  she  now  to^k  up 
the  general  quarrel  of  woman  against  man. 

"  I  will  give  you  leave,  Zenobia,"  replied  1,  "  to  fling 
your  utmost  scorn  upon  me,  if  you  ever  hear  me  utter  a 
sentiment  unfavorable  to  the  widest  liberty  which  woman 
has  yet  dreamed  of.  I  would  give  her  all  she  asks,  and 
add  a  great  deal  more,  which  she  will  not  be  the  party 
to  demand,  but  which  men,  if  they  were  generous  and 
wise,  would  grant  of  their  own  free  motion.  For 
instance,  I  should  love  dearly, — for  the  next  thousand 
years,  at  least,  —  to  have  all  o-overnment  devolve  intt 


8LIOT'S    PULPIT.  145 

tne  hands  of  women.  I  hate  to  be  ruled  by  my  own 
BOX  ;  it  excites  my  jealousy,  and  wounds  my  pride.  It 
is  the  iron  sway  of  bodily  force  which  abases  us,  in  our 
compelled  submission.  But  how  sweet  the  free,  gen 
erous  courtesy,  with  which  I  would  kneel  before  a 
tvotnan-rul^r ! " 

"  Yes,  h  she  were  young  and  beautiful  "  said  Zeno- 
oia,  laughing.  "  But  how  if  she  were  sixty,  and  a 
fright?" 

"  Ah  !  it  is  you  that  rate  womanhood  low,"  said  i. 
"  But  let  me  go  on.  I  have  never  found  it  possible  to 
suffer  a  bearded  priest  so  near  my  heart  and  conscience 
as  to  do  me  any  spiritual  good.  I  blush  at  the  very 
thought !  0,  in  the  better  order  of  things,  Heaven  grant 
that  the  ministry  of  souls  may  be  left  in  charge  of 
women !  The  gates  of  the  Blessed  City  will  be 
thronged  with  the  multitude  that  enter  in,  when  that 
day  comes  !  The  task  belongs  to  woman.  God  meant 
it  for  her.  He  has  endowed  her  with  the  religious  sen 
timent  in  its  utmost  depth  and  purity,  refined  from  that 
gross,  intellectual  alloy  with  which  every  masculine 
iheologist  —  save  only  One,  who  merely  veiled  himself 
in  mortal  and  masculine  shape,  but  was,  in  truth,  divine 
—  has  been  prone  to  mingle  it.  I  have  always  envied 
the  Catholics  their  faith  in  that  sweet,  sacred  Virgin 
Mother,  who  stands  between  them  and  the  Deity,  inter 
cepting  somewhat  of  his  awful  splendor,  but  permitting 
his  love  to  stream  upon  the  worshipper  more  intelligibly 
to  human  comprehension  through  the  medium  of  a 
woman's  tenderness.  Have  I  not  said  enough,  Zeno- 
oia  ?  ' 

'*  1  :annot  think  that  this  is  true,"  observed 
iO 


1  16  TP1E    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

who  had  been  gazing-  at  me  with  great,  disapproving 
eyes.     "  And  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be  true ! " 

"  Poor  child ! "  exclaimed  Zenobia,  rather  contempt 
uously.  "  She  is  the  type  of  womanhood,  such  as  man 
has  spent  centuries  in  making  it.  He  is  never  content 
unless  he  can  degrade  himself  by  stooping  towards  wha.1 
he  loves.  In  denying  us  our  rights,  he  betrays  even 
more  blindness  to  his  OWE  interests  than  profligate  dis 
regard  of  ours ! " 

"  Is  this  true?"  asked  Pnscilla>  with  simplicity,  turn 
ing  to  Hollings worth.  "  Is  it  all  true,  that  Mr.  Cover- 
dale  and  Zenobia  have  been  saying  ?  " 

"  No,  Priscilla  ! "  answered  Hollingsworth,  with  his 
customary  bluntness.  "  They  have  neither  of  them 
spoken  one  true  word  yet." 

"Do  you  despise  woman?"  said  Zenobia.  "Ah, 
Hollingsworth,  that  would  be  most  ungrateful  !" 

"  Despise  her?  No  !"  cried  Hollingsworth,  lifting  his 
great  shaggy  head  and  shaking  it  at  us,  while  his  eyes 
glowed  almost  fiercely.  "  She  is  the  most  admirable 
handiwork  of  God,  in  her  true  place  and  character. 
Her  place  is  at  man's  side.  Her  office,  that  of  the  sym 
pathizer  ;  the  unreserved,  unquestioning  believer ;  the 
recognition,  withheld  in  every  other  manner,  but  given, 
in  pity,  through  woman's  heart,  lest  man  should  utterly 
lose  faith  in  himself;  the  echo  of  God's  own  voice,  pro 
nouncing,  *  It  is  well  done  ! '  All  the  separate  action 
of  woman  is,  and  ever  has  been,  and  always  shall  be 
false,  foolish,  vain,  destructive  of  her  own  best  and 
holiesl  qualities,  void  of  every  good  effect,  and  product 
ve  of  intolerable  mischiefs!  Man  is  a  wretch  withoa 
woman ;  but  woman  is  a  monster  —  and,  thank  Heaven 


ELIOT'S  PULMT  147 

an  a  most  impossible  and  hitherto  imaginary  monster  — 
without  man  as  her  acknowledged  principal !  As  true 
as  I  had  on».e  a  mother  whom  I  loved,  were  there  any 
possible  prospect  of  woman's-  taking  the  social  stand 
which  some  of  them  —  poor,  miserable,  abortive  crea» 
tures,  who  only  dream  of  such  things  because  they  have 
missed  woman's  peculiar  happiness,  or  because  nature 
made  them  really  neither  man  nor  woman  !  —  if  there 
were  a  chance  of  their  attaining  the  end  which  these 
petticoated  monstrosities  have  in  view,  I  would  call  upon 
my  own  sex  to  use  its  physical  force,  that  unmistakable 
evidence  of  sovereignty,  to  scourge  them  back  within 
their  proper  bounds  !  But  it  will  not  be  needful.  The 
Jieart  of  true  womanhood  knows  where  its  own  sphere 
is,  and  never  seeks  to  stray  beyond  it ! " 

Never  was  mortal  blessed — if  blessing  it  were — with 
i  glance  of  such  entire  acquiescence  and  unquestioning 
faith,  happy  in  its  completeness,  as  our  little  Priscilla 
unconsciously  bestowed  on  Hollingsworth.  She  seemed 
to  take  the  sentiment  from  his  tips  into  her  heart,  and 
brood  over  it  in  perfect  content.  The  very  woman 
whom  he  pictured  —  the  gentle  parasite,  the  soft  reflec 
tion  of  a  more  powerful  existence —  sat  there  at  his  feet. 

I  looked  at  Zenobia,  however,  fully  expecting  her  to 
resent  —  as  I  felt,  by  the  indignant  ebullition  of  my  own 
blood,  that  she  ought  —  this  outrageous  affirmation  of 
what  struck  me  as  the  intensity  of  masculine  egotism. 
It  centred  everything  in  itself,  and  deprived  woman  of 
her  very  soul,  her  inexpressible  and  unfathomable  all,  to 
make  it  a  mere  incident  in  the  great  sum  of  man. 
Hoi  lings  worth  had  boldly  uttered  what  he,  and  millions 
Dl  despots  like  him,  really  felt.  Without  intending  it. 


148  THE     BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

he  had  disclosed  the  well-spring  of  all  these  troubled 
waters.  Now,  if  ever,  it  surely  behooved  Zenobia  to  be 
the,  champion  of  her  sex. 

But,  to  my  surprise,  and  indignation  too,  she  only 
looked  humbled.  Some  tears  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  but 
they  were  wholly  of  giief,  not  anger. 

"  Well,  be  it  so,"  was  all  she  said.  "  I,  at  least 
have  deep  cause  to  think  you  right.  Let  man  be  but 
manly  and  god-like,  and  woman  is  only  too  ready  to 
become  to  him  what  you  say  !  " 

I  smiled  —  somewhat  bitterly,  it  is  true  —  in  contem 
plation  of  my  own  ill-luck.  How  little  did  these  two 
women  care  for  me,  who  had  freely  conceded  all  their 
claims,  and  a  great  deal  more,  out  of  the  fulness  of  my 
heart ;  while  Rollings  worth,  by  some  necromancy  of  his 
horrible  injustice,  seemed  to  have  brought  them  both  to 
his  feet ! 

"  Women  almost  invariably  behave  thus,"  thought  I. 
'•  What  does  the  fact  mean  ?  Is  it  their  nature  ?  Or  is 
it,  at  last,  the  result  of  ages  of  compelled  degradation  ? 
And,  in  either  case,  will  it  be  possible  ever  to  redeem 
them  ? 

An  intuition  now  appeared  to  possess  all  the  party, 
that,  for  this  time,  at  least,  there  was  no  more  to  be 
said.  With  one  accord,  we  arose  from  the  ground,  and 
made  our  way  through  the  tangled  undergrowth  towards 
one  of  those  pleasant  wood-paths  that  wound  among  the 
over-arching  trees.  Some  of  the  branches  hung  so  low 
as  partly  to  conceal  the  figures  that  went  before  from 
those  who  followed.  Priscilla  had  leaped  up  more 
.ightly  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  ran  along  in  advance, 
nr»th  as  much  airy  activity  of  spirit  as  was  typified  »B 


ELIOT'S  PULPIT.  1*9 

ftp  ,flotic.i  of  a  bird,  which  chanced  to  be  fluting  Irom 
tree  to  tree,  in  the  same  direction  as  herself.  Never  did 
si™  seem  so  happy  as  that  afternoon.  She  skipt,  and 
could  not  help  it,  from  very  playfulness  of  heart. 

Zenobia  and  Hollingsworth  went  next,  in  close  conti 
guity,  but  not  with  arm  in  arm.  Now,  just  when  they 
had  passed  the  impending  bough  of  a  birch-tree,  I 
plainly  saw  Zenobia  take  the  hand  of  Hollingsworth  in 
both  her  own,  press  it  to  her  bosom,  and  let  it  fall 
again  ! 

The  gesture  was  sudden,  and  full  of  passion  ;  the 
impulse  had  evidently  taken  her  by  surprise;  it  expressed 
all !  Had  Zenobia  knelt  before  him,  or  flung  herself 
upon  his  breast,  and  gasped  out,  "  I  love  you,  Hollings 
worth  !"  I  could  not  have  been  more  certain  of  what  it 
meant.  They  then  walked  onward,  as  before.  But, 
methought,  as  the  declining  sun  threw  Zenobia's  magni 
fied  shadow  along  the  path,  I  beheld  it  tremulous ;  and 
the  delicate  stem  of  the  flower  which  she  wore  in  her 
hair  was  likewise  responsive  to  her  agitation. 

Priscilla  —  through  the  medium  of  her  eyes,  at  least 
—  could  not  possibly  have  been  aware  of  the  gesture 
above  described.  Yet,  at  that  instant,  I  saw  her  droop 
The  buoyancy,  which  just  before  had  been  so  bird-like, 
was  utterly  departed ;  the  life  seemed  to  pass  out  of  her, 
and  even  the  substance  of  her  figure  to  grow  thin  and 
gray.  I  almost  imagined  her  a  shadow,  fading  grad 
ually  'nto  the  dimness  of  the  wood.  Her  pace  became 
so  slow,  that  Hollingsworth  and  Zenobia  passed  by,  and 
I,  without  hastening  my  footsteps,  overtook  her. 

"  Come,  Priscilla,"  said  I,  looking  her  intently  in  the 
Jbce,  which  was  very  pale  and  sorrowful,  "  we  must 


5  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

make  haste  after  our  friends.     Do  you  feel  suddenly  ill 
A.  moment  ago,  you  flitted  along  so  lightly  that  I  wr,i 
comparing  you  to  a  bird.     Now,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  us 
if  you  had  a  heavy  heart,  and  very  little  strength  to  bear 
it  with.     Pray  take  my  arm  !  " 

"No,"  said  Priscilla,  "I  do  not  think  it  would  help 
me.  It  is  my  heart,  as  you  say,  that  makes  me  henvy; 
and  I  know  not  why.  Just  now,  I  felt  very  happy." 

No  doubt  it  was  a  kind  of  sacrilege  in  me  to  attempt 
to  come  within  her  maidenly  mystery;  but,  as  she 
appeared  to  be  tossed  aside  by  her  other  friends,  or  care 
lessly  let  fall,  like  a  flower  which  they  had  done  with,  1 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  take  just  one  peep  beneath 
hei  folded  petals. 

"  Zenobia  and  yourself  are  dear  friends,  of  late,"  I 
remarked.  "At  first,  —  that  first  evening  when  you 
came  to  us,  —  she  did  not  -receive  you  quite  so  warmly 
as  might  have  been  wished." 

"  I  remember  it,"  said  Priscilla.  "  No  wonder  she 
hesitated  to  love  me,  who  was  then  a  stranger  to  her, 
and  a  girl  of  no  grace  or  beauty,  —  she  being  herself  so 
beautiful ! " 

"But  she  loves  you  now,  of  course?"  suggested  I. 
"  And  at  this  very  instant  you  feel  her  to  be  your  dear 
est  friend  ? " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  question  ? "  exclaimed 
Priscilla,  as  if  frightened  at  the  scrutiny  into  her  feel 
ings  which  I  compelled  her  to  make.  "  It  somehow  puts 
strange  thoughts  into  my  mind.  But  I  ?o  love  Zenobia 
iearly !  If  she  only  loves  me  half  as  well,  I  shall  be 
haupy ! " 

'  How  is  ic  possible  to  doubt  that,  Priscilla  ? "  I  re 


ELIOT'S  PULPIT  161 

•oined.  "But  observe  how  pleasantly  and  hazily 
Zeuobia  and  Hollingsworth  are  walking  together.  1 
cal1  it  a  delightful  spectacle.  It  truly  rejoi(.e£  me  that 
Hol'ungsworth  has  found  so  fit  and  affectionate  a  friend ! 
So  many  people  in  the  world  mistrust  him,  —  so  many 
disbelieve  and  ridicule,  while  hardly  any  do  him  justice, 
or  acknowledge  him  for  the  wonderful  man  he  is,  —  that 
it  is  really  a  blessed  thing  for  him  to  have  won  the  sym 
pathy  of  such  a  woman  as  Zenobia.  Any  man  might 
be  proud  of  that.  Any  man,  even  if  he  be  as  great  aa 
Hollingsworth,  might  love  so  magnificent  a  woman. 
How  very  beautiful  Zenobia  is !  And  Hollingsworth 
knows  it,  too." 

There  may  have  been  some  petty  malice  in  what  I 
said.  Generosity  is  a  very  fine  thing,  at  a  proper  time, 
and  within  due  limits.  But  it  is  an  insufferable  bore  to 
see  one  man  engrossing  every  thought  of  all  the  women, 
and  leaving-  his  friend  to  shiver  in  outer  seclusion,  with 
out  even  the  alternative  of  solacing  himself  with  what 
the  more  fortunate  individual  has  rejected.  Yes ;  it  wa< 
out  of  a  foolish  bitterness  of  heart  that  I  had  spoken. 

"Go   on   before,"  said    Priscilla,  abruptly,  and    < 
true   feminine    imperiousness,   which   heretofore  I  had 
never  seen  her  exercise.     "  It  pleases  me  best  to  loiter 
along  by  myself.     I  do  not  walk  so  fast  as  you." 

With  her  hand,  she  made  a  little  gesture  of  dismissal. 
It  provoked  me ;  yet,  on  the  whole,  was  the  most  be 
witching  thing  that  Priscilla  had  ever  done.  I  obeyed 
her.  and  strolled  moodily  homeward,  wondering  —  as  I 
had  wondered  a  thousand  times  already  —  how  Hol 
lingsworth  meant  to  dispose  of  these  two  hearts,  which 
'jplain  y  to  my  perception,  and,  as  I  r,ou  d  not  but  now 


152  THE    BLTTHEDALE    ROMA^Cix 

suppose,  to  his)  he  had  engrossed  into  his  own  hug* 
egotism. 

There  was  likewise  another  subject  hardly  less  fran 
ful  of  speculation.  In  what  attitude  did  Zenobia  piesen 
herself  to  Hollingsworth  ?  Was  it  in  that  of  a  free 
woman,  with  no  mortgage  on  her  affections  nor  claimant 
to  her  hand,  but  fully  at  liberty  to  surrender  both,  in 
exchange  for  the  heart  and  hand  which  she  apparently 
expected  to  receive  ?  But  was  it  a  vision  that  I  had 
witnessed  in  the  wood?  Was  Westervelt  a  goblin? 
W  ere  those  words  of  passion  and  agony,  which  Zenobia 
had  uttered  in  my  hearing,  a  mere  stage  declamation  ? 
Were  they  formed  of  a  material  lighter  than  common 
air  ?  Or,  supposing  them  to  bear  sterling  weight,  was 
it  not  a  perilous  and  dreadful  wrong  which  she  was 
meditating  towards  herself  and  Hollingsworth  ? 

Arriving  nearly  at  the  farm-house,  I  looked  back  over 
the  long  slope  of  pasture-land,  and  beheld  them  standing 
together,  in  the  light  of  sunset,  just  on  the  spot  where, 
according  to  the  gossip  of  the  Community,  tl  y  meant 
!o  bivld  their  cottage.  Priscilla,  alone  and 
^as  lingering  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 


XV. 

A  CRISIS 

THUS  the  summer  was  passing  away ,  —  a  summer  of 
toil,  of  interest,  of  something  that  was  not  pleasure,  but 
which  went  deep  into  my  heart,  and  there  became  a  rich 
experience.  1  found  myself  looking  forward  to  years,  if 
not  to  a  lifetime,  to  be  spent  on  the  same  system.  The 
Community  wrere  now  beginning  to  form  their  permanent 
plans.  One  of  our  purposes  was  to  erect  a  Phalanstery 
(as  I  think  we  called  it,  after  Fourier ;  but  the  phrase 
ology  of  those  days  is  not  very  fresh  in  my  remem 
brance),  where  the  great  and  general  family  should  have 
its  abiding-place.  Individual  members,  too,  who  made 
it  a  point  of  religion  to  preserve  the  sanctity  of  an  ex 
clusive  home,  were  selecting  sites  for  their  cottages,  by 
tne  wood-side,  or  on  the  breezy  swells,  or  in  the  sheltered 
nook  of  some  little  valley,  according  as  their  taste  might 
lean  towards  snugness  or  the  picturesque.  Altogether, 
by  projecting  our  minds  outward,  we  had  imparted  a 
show  of  novelty  to  existence,  and  contemplated  it  as 
hopefully  as  if  the  soil  beneath  our  feet  had  not  been 
fathom-deep  with  the  dust  of  deluded  generations,  on 
5very  one  of  which,  as  on  ourselves,  the  world  had 
imposed  itself  as  a  hitherto  unwedded  bride. 

Hollingsworth  and  myself  had  often  discussed  these 

•     prospects.     It  was   easy  to  perceive,  however,  that  he 

spoke  with  little  or  no  fervor,  but  either  as  questioning 


154  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

the  fulillnent  of  our  anticipations,  or,  at  any  rate,  with  a 
quiet  consciousness  that  it  was  MO  personal  concern  of 
his.  Shortly  after  the  scene  at  Eliot's  pulpit,  while  he 
and  I  were  repairing  an  old  stone  fence,  I  amused  myself 
with  sallying  forward  into  the  future  time. 

"  When  we  come  to  be  old  men,"  I  said,  "  they  will 
call  us  uncles,  or  fathers,  —  Father  Hollingsworth  and 
Uncle  Coverdale,  —  and  we  will  look  back  cheerfully  to 
these  early  days,  and  make  a  romantic  story  for  the 
young  people  (and  if  a  little  more  romantic  than  truth 
may  warrant,  it  will  be  no  harm)  out  of  our  severe  trials 
and  hardships.  In  a  century  or  two,  we  shall,  every 
one  of  us,  be  mythical  personages,  or  exceedingly  pictur 
esque  and  poetical  ones,  at  all  events.  They  will  have, 
a  great  public  hall,  in  which  your  portrait,  and  mine, 
and  twenty  other  faces  that  are  living  now,  shall  be  hung 
up ;  and  as  for  me,  I  will  be  painted  in  my  shirt-sleeves, 
and  with  the  sleeves  rolled  up,  to  show  my  muscular 
development.  What  stories  will  be  rife  among  them 
about  our  mighty  strength !  "  continued  I,  lifting  a  bi^ 
stone  and  putting  it  into  its  place ;  "  though  our  posterity 
will  really  be  far  stronger  than  ourselves,  after  several 
generations  of  a  simple,  natural,  and  active  life.  What 
legends  of  Zenobia's  beauty,  and  Priscilla's  slender  and 
shadowy  grace,  and  those  mysterious  qualities  which 
make  her  seem  diaphanous  with  spiritual  light !  In  due 
course  of  ages,  we  must  all  figure  heroically  in  an  epic 
poem  ;  and  we  will  ourselves  —  at  least,  I  will  —  Dend 
unseen  over  the  future  poet,  and  lend  him  inspiration 
while  he  wiites  it." 

"  You  seem,"  said  Hollingsworth,  "  to  be  trying  how 
niuch  nonsense  you  can  pour  out  in  a  breath." 


A  CRISIS.  100 

"I  wish  you  wo  aid  7ee  fit  to  compre  L<md,"  retorted 
/  I,  "  that  the  profoundest  wisdom  must  be  mingled  with 
nine-tenths  of  nonsense,  else  it  is  not  worth  the  breath 
that  utters  it.  But  I  do  long  for  the  cottages  to  be  built, 
that  the  creeping  plants  may  begin  to  run  over  them,  and 
the  moss  to  gather  on  the  walls,  and  the  trees  —  which 
we  will  set  out  —  to  cover  them  with  a  breadth  of 
shadow.  This  spick-and-span  novelty  does  not  quite 
suit  my  taste.  It  is  time,  too,  for  children  to  be  born 
among  us.  The  first-born  child  is  still  to  come.  And 
I  shall  never  feel  as  if  this  were  a  real,  practical,  as  well 
as  poetical,  system  of  human  life,  until  somebody  has 
sanctified  it  by  death." 

"  A  pretty  occasion  for  martyrdom,  truly  !  "  said  Hoi 
.ings  worth. 

"  As  good  as  any  other,"  I  replied.  "  I  wonder,  Hoi 
tingsworth,  who,  of  all  these  strong  men,  and  lair  women 
and  maidens,  is  doomed  'the  first  to  die.  Would  it  not 
be  well,  even  before  we  have  absolute  need  of  it,  to  fix 
upon  a  spot  for  a  cemetery  ?  Let  us  choose  the  rudest, 
roughest,  most  uncultivable  spot,  for  Death's  garden- 
ground  ;  and  Death  shall  teach  us  to  beautify  it,  grave 
by  grave.  By  our  sweet,  calm  wray  of  dying,  and  the 
airy  elegance  out  of  which  we  will  shape  our  funeral 
rites,  and  the  cheerful  allegories  which  we  will  model 
into  tomb-stones,  the  final  scene  shall  lose  its  terrors  :  so 
that  hereafter  it  may  be  happiness  to  live,  and  bliss  tc 
die  None  of  us  must  die  young.  Yet,  should  Provi 
dence  ordain  it  so,  the  event  shall  not  be  sorrowful,  but 
nflfect  us  with  a  tender,  delicious,  only  half  melancholy 
Ind  almost  smiling  pathos  ! " 

"  That  ic  to  say,"  muttered  HoClings worth, '  you  will 


156  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

die  like  a  heatu  jn,  as  you  certainly  live  like  one. 
listen  to  me,  Coverdale.  Your  fantastic  anticipations 
make  me  discern  all  the  more  forcibly  what  a  wretched, 
unsubstantial  scheme  is  this,  on  which  we  have  wasted  a 
precious  summer  of  our  lives.  Do  you  serious!)  imagine 
that  any  such  realities  as  you,  and  many  others  here, 
have  dreamed  of,  will  ever  be  brought  to  pass  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  do,"  said  1.  "  Of  course,  when  the 
rea.ity  comes,  it  will  wear  the  every-day,  commonplace, 
dusty,  and  rather  homely  garb,  that  reality  always  does 
put  on.  But,  setting  aside  the  ideal  charm,  I  held  that 
our  highest  anticipations  have  a  solid  footing  on  common 
sense." 

"  You  only  half  believe  what  you  say,"  rejoined  Hol- 
fingsworth ;  "  and  as  for  me,  I  neither  have  faith  in  your 
iream,  nor  would  care  the  value  of  this  pebble  for  its 
realization,  were  that  possible.  And  what  more  do  you 
want  of  it  ?  It  has  given  you  a  theme  for  poetry.  Let 
that  content  you.  But  now  I  ask  you  to  be,  at  last,  a 
man  of  sobriety  and  earnestness,  and  aid  me  in  an  enter 
prise  which  is  worth  all  our  strength,  and  the  strength 
of  a  thousand  mightier  than  we." 

There  can  be  no  need  of  giving  in  detail  the  conver 
sation  that  ensued.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  Rollings- 
worth  once  more  brought  forward  his  rigid  and  uncon 
querable  idea ;  a  scheme  for  the  reformation  of  the 
wicked  by  methods  moral,  intellectual  and  industrial,  by 
the  sympathy  of  pure,  humble,  and  yet  exalted  minds 
and  by  opening  to  his  pupils  the  possibility  of  a  worthiei 
life  than  that  which  had  become  their  fate.  It  appeared, 
unless  he  over-estimated  his  own  means,  that  Holl ings- 
worth  held  U  at  his  choic*  (\nd  he  did  so  choose)  to 


A   CRISIS.  157 

obtain  possession  of  the  very  ground  on  \\hich  we  had 
planted  our  Community  and  which  had  not  yet  been 
made  irrevocably  ours,  by  purchase.  It  was  just  the 
foundation  thai  he  desired.  Our  beginnings  might  read 
ily  be  adapted  to  his  great  end.  The  arrangements 
already  completed  would  work  quietly  into  his  system. 
So  plausible  looked  his  theory,  and,  more  than  that,  so 
practical, —  such  an  air  of  reasonableness  had  he,  by 
patient  thought,  thrown  over  it,  —  each  segment  of  it 
was  contrived  to  dove-tail  into  all  the  rest  with  such  a 
complicated  applicability,  and  so  ready  was  he  with  a 
response  for  every  objection,  that,  really,  so  far  as  logic 
and  argument  went,  he  had  the  matter  all  his  own  way 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  whence  can  you,  having  no  means  of 
your  own,  derive  the  enormous  capital  which  is  essential 
to  this  experiment  ?  State-street,  I  imagine,  would  not 
draw  its  purse-strings  very  liberally  in  aid  of  such  a 
speculation." 

"  I  have  the  funds  —  as  much,  at  least,  as  is  needed  for 
a  commencement  —  at  command,"  he  answered.  "  They 
can  be  produced  within  a  month,  if  necessary." 

My  thoughts  reverted  to  Zenobia.  It  could  only  be 
her  wealth  which  Hollingsworth  was  appropriating  so 
lavishly.  And  on  what  conditions  was  it  to  be  had? 
Did  she  fling  it  into  the  scheme  with  the  unca.lculating 
generosity  that  characterizes  a  woman  when  it  is  lei 
impulse  to  be  generous  at  all?  And  did  sfce  fling  hersejf 
along  with  it  ?  But  Hollingsworth  did  not  volunteer  an 
explanation. 

"  And  have  you  no  regrets,"  I  inquired,  "  in  ovei 
throwing  this  fair  system  of  our  new  life,  which  has  been 
planned  so  deeply,  and  is  now  beginning  to  flour  sU  sa 


l58  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

Hopefully  around  us  ?  How  beautiful  it  is,  and,  so  far  as 
we  can  yet  see,  how  practicable  !  The  ages  have  v\aited 
for  us,  and  here  we  are,  the  very  first  that  have  essayed 
to  carry  on  our  mortal  existence  in  love  and  mutual 
help !  Rolling  worth,  I  would  be  loth  to  take  the  ruin 
of  this  enterprise  upon  my  conscience." 

"  Then  let  it  rest  wholly  upon  mine !  "  he  answered, 
knitting  his  black  brows.  "  I  see  through  the  system 
It  is  full  of  defects,  —  irremediable  and  damning  ones' 
—  from  first  to  last,  there  is  nothing  else  !  I  grasp  it  in 
my  hand,  ana  find  no  substance  whatever.  There  is  not 
human  nature  in  it." 

"  Why  are  you  so  secret  in  your  operations  ? "  I 
asked.  "  God  forbid  that  I  should  accuse  you  of  inten 
tional  wrong ;  but  the  besetting  sin  of  a  philanthropist, 
it  appears  to  me,  is  apt  to  be  a  moral  obliquity.  His 
sense  of  honor  ceases  to  be  the  sense  of  other  honorable 
men.  At  some  point  of  his  course  —  I  know  not  exactly 
when  or  where  —  he  is  tempted  to  palter  with  the  right, 
and  can  scarcely  forbear  persuading  himself  that  the 
importance  of  his  public  ends  renders  it  allowable  to 
throw  aside  his  private  conscience.  O,  my  dear  friend, 
beware  this  error  !  If  you  meditate  the  overthrow  of  this 
establishment,  call  together  our  companions,  state  youi 
design,  support  it  with  all  your  eloquence,  but  allow  them 
*n  opportunity  of  defending  themselves." 

"  It  does  not  suit  me,"  said  Hollingsworth.  '  Nor  in 
it  my  duty  to  do  so." 

"  I  think  it  is,"  replied  I. 

Hollingsworth  frowned ;  not  in  passion,  but,  like  fate 
inexoTubly. 

'  I   wil     not  argue  the  point,"  said   he.     "  What  I 


A    CRISIS.  159 

desire  to  know  of  5  JVL  is,  —  and  you  can  tell  me  in  one 
word,  —  whether]  am  to<  look  for  your  cooperation  in 
this  great  scheme  of  good  ?  Take  it  up  \vith  me  !  Be 
my  brother  in  it !  It  offers  you  (what  you  have  told  me, 
over  ai;l  over  again,  that  you  most  need)  a  purpose  ip 
life,  worthy  of  the  extremest  self-devotion,  —  worthy  of 
martyrdom,  should  God  so  order  it!  In  this  view  1 
present  it  to  you.  You  can  greatly  benefit  mankind. 
Your  peculiar  faculties,  as  I  shall  direct  them,  a  re  capable 
of  being  so  wrought  into  this  enterprise  that  not  one  of 
them  need  lie  idle.  Strike  hands  with  me,  and  from 
this  moment  you  shall  never  again  feel  the  languor  and 
vague  wretchedness  of  an  indolent  or  half-occupied  man. 
There  may  be  no  more  aimless  beauty  in  your  life  ;  but, 
in  its  stead,  there  shall  be  strength,  courage,  immitigable 
will  —  everything  that  a  manly  and  generous  nature 
should  desire !  We  shall  succeed  !  We  shall  have  done 
our  best  for  this  miserable  world  ;  and  happiness  (which 
never  comes  but  incidentally)  will  come  to  us  unawares." 

It  seemed  his  intention  to  say  no  more.  But,  after  he 
had  quite  broken  off,  his  deep  eyes  filled  with  tears,  Mid 
he  held  out  both  his  hands  to  me. 

"  Coverdale,"  he  murmured,  "  there  is  not  the  man  in 
this  wide  world  whom  I  can  love  as  I  could  you.  Do 
not  forsake  me  !  " 

As  I  look  back  upon  this  scene,  through  the  coldriosv 
and  dimness  of  so  many  years,  there  is  still  a  sensation 
as  if  Rollings  worth  had  caught  hold  of  my  heart,  and 
were  pulling  it  towards  him  ;vith  an  almost  irresist 
ible  fore?.  It  is  a  mystery  to  ire  how  I  withstood  it. 
But,  in  truth,  I  saw  in  his  scheme  of  philanthropy 
.oothing  but  \\hat  was  odious.  A  ioathsjinene-s?  thai 


160  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

was  to  oe  forever  in  my  daily  work!  A  gieat,  bliicL 
ugliness  of  sin,  which  he  proposed  to  collect  out  of  a 
thousand  human  hearts,  and  that  we  should  spend  om 
lives  in  an  experiment  of  transmuting  it  into  virtue  !  Had 
I  but  touched  his  extended  hand,  Hollingsworth's  mag 
netism  would  perhaps  have  penetrated  me  with  his  own 
conception  of  all  these  matters.  But  I  stood  aloof.  I 
fortified  myself  with  doubts  whether  his  strength  of  pur- 
POFL  had  not  been  too  gigantic  for  his  integrity,  impelling 
him  to  trample  on  considerations  that  should  have  been 
paramount  to  every  other. 

"Is  Zenobia  to  take  a  part  in  your  enterprise?"  I 
asked. 

"  She  is,"  said  Hollingsworth. 

"  She  !  —  the  beautiful ! — the  gorgeous !  "  I  exclaimed. 
"  And  how  have  you  prevailed  with  such  a  woman  to 
work  in  this  squalid  element  ?  " 

"  Through  no  base  methods,  as  you  seem  to  suspect," 
he  answered ;  "  but  by  addressing  whatever  is  best  and 
noblest  in  her." 

-Hollingsworth  was  looking  on  the  ground.  But, 
as  he  often  did  so,  —  generally,  indeed,  in  his  habitual 
moods  of  thought,  —  I  could  not  judge  whether  it  was 
from  any  special  unwillingness  now  to  meet  my  eyes. 
What  it  was  that  dictated  my  next  question,  I  cannot 
precisely  say.  Nevertheless,  it  rose  so  inevitably  into 
my  mouth,  and,  as  it  WL.-C,  asked  itself  so  involuntarily, 
tiat  there  must  needs  have  been  an  aptness  in  it. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  Priscilla  ?  " 

Hollingsworth  looked  at  me  fiercely,  and  wit!  glowing 
tyes  He  could  not  have  shewn  any  other  kind  of 


A    CKISIS.  161 

expr?ssun  than  that,  had  he  meant  to  stiike  me  with  a 
word. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  in  the  names  of  these  women  I " 
said  lie,  after  a  moment  of  pregnant  silence.  "  What 
have  they  to  do  with  the  proposal  which  I  make  you  1 
I  must  have  your  answer  !  Will  you  devote  yourself, 
and  sacrifice  all  to  this  great  end,  and  be  my  friend  of 
friends  forever  1 " 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  Hollingsworth,"  cried  I,  getting 
angry,  and  glad  to  be  angry,  because  so  only  was  it  pos 
sible  to  oppose  his  tremendous  concentrativeness  and 
indomitable  will,  "  cannot  you  conceive  that  a  man  may 
wish  well  to  the  world,  and  struggle  for  its  good,  0:1 
some  other  plan  than  precisely  ihat  which  you  have  laid 
lown  1  And  will  you  cast  off  a  friend  for  no  unworthi- 
ness,  but  merely  because  he  stands  upon  his  right  as  an 
individual  being,  and  looks  at  matters  through  his  own 
optics,  instead  of  yours  1 " 

"  Be  with  me,"  said  Hollingsworth,  "  or  be  against 
me  !  There  is  no  third  choice  for  you." 

"  Take  this,  then,  as  my  decision,"  I  answered.  "  1 
-joubt  the  wisdom  of  your  scheme.  Furthermore,  1 
greatly  fear  that  the  methods  by  which  you  allow  your 
self  to  pursue  it  are  such  as  cannot  stand  the  scrutiny 
of  an  unbiassed  conscience." 

"  And  you  will  not  join  me  1 " 

"  No  ! " 

I  never  said  the  word  —  and  certainly  can  nerer  neve 
it  to  say  hereafter — that  cost  me  a  thousandth  part  so 
hard  an  effort  as  did  that  one  syllable.  The  heart-pang 
was  not  merely  figurative,  but  an  absolute  torture  of  the 
breast.  I  was  gazing  steadfastly  at  H«,<' lings  worth  It 
11  " 


162  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

Beeiaed  tc  me  that  it  struck  him,  too,  like  a  bullet.  / 
ghastly  paleness  —  always  so  terrific  on  a  swarthy  lace 
—  overspread  his  features.  There  was  a  convulsive 
movemei  t  of  his  throat,  as  if  he  were  forcing  down  some 
words  that  struggled  and  fought  for  utterance.  Whether 
words  o£  anger,  or  words  of  grief,  I  cannot  tell ;  although, 
many  and  many  a  time,  I  have  vainly  tormented  myself 
with  conjecturing  which  of  the  two  they  were.  One 
other  appeal  to  my  friendship,  —  such  as  once,  already, 
Hollingsworth  had  made,  —  taking  me  in  the  revulsion 
that  followed  a  strenuous  exercise  of  opposing  will, 
would  completely  have  subdued  me.  But  he  left  the 
matter  there. 

"  Well  ! "  said  he. 

And  that  was  all !  I  should  have  been  thankful  for 
one  word  more,  even  had  it  shot  me  through  the  heart, 
us  mine  did  him.  But  he  did  not  speak  it ;  and,  after 
a  few  moments,  with  one  accord,  we  set  to  work  again, 
repairing  the  stone  fence.  Hollingsworth,  I  observed, 
wrought  like  a  Titan ;  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  lifted 
stones  which  at  this  day  —  or,  in  a  calmer  mood,  at 
Inat  one  —  I  should  no  more  have  thought  it  possible  tc 
stir  than  to  carry  off  the  gates  of  Gaza  on  my  back. 


XVI. 
LEA\  E-TAKIXGS. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  tragic  passage-at-arms  between 
H.ollingsworth  and  me,  I  appeared  at  the  dinner-taole 
actually  dressed  in  a  coat,  instead  of  my  customary 
blouse ;  with  a  satin  cravat,  too,  a  white  vest,  and  sev 
eral  other  things  that  made  me  seem  strange  and  out 
landish  to  myself.  As  for  my  compa-  ons,  this  un 
wonted  spectacle  caused  a  great  stir  upon  the  wooden 
benches  that  bordered  either  side  of  our  homely  board. 
"  What 's  in  the  wind  now,  Miles  ? "  asked  one  of 
them.  "  Are  you  deserting  us  ? " 

"  Yes,  for  a  week  or  two,"  said  I.  "  It  strikes  me 
that  my  health  demands  a  little  relaxation  of  labor,  and 
i  short  visit  to  the  sea-side,  during  the  dog-days." 

"  You  look  like  it ! "  grumbled  Silas  Foster,  not 
greatly  pleased  with  the  idea  of  losing  an  efficient 
laborer  before  the  stress  of  the  season  was  well  over. 
"  Now,  here 's  a  pretty  fellow  !  His  shoulders  have 
broadened  a  matter  of  six  inches,  since  he  came  among 
as  ;  he  can  do  his  day's  work,  if  he  likes,  with  any  man 
or  ox  on  the  farm  ;  and  yet  he  talks  about  going  to  the 
sea-shore  for  his  health!  Well,  well,  old  woman," 
added  he  to  his  wife,  "  let  me  have  a  plateful  of  that 
pork  and  cabbage  !  I  begin  to  feel  in  a  very  weakly 
way.  When  the  others  have  had  their  turn,  you  and  I 
will  take  a  jaunt  to  Newport  or  Saratoga !' 


164  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

"Well,  but,  Mr.  Foster,"  said  I,  "you  must  a\l<w 
me  to  take  a  litile  breath." 

"  Breath  ! "  retorted  the  old  yeoman.  "  Your  lungs 
have  the  play  of  a  pair  of  blacksmith's  bellows  already. 
What  on  earth  do  you  want  more  ?  But  go  along  !  I 
understand  the  business.  We  shall  never  see  your 
face  here  again.  Here  ends  the  reformation  of  the 
world,  30  far  as  Miles  Coverdale  has  a  hand  in  it ! " 

"  By  no  means,"  I  replied.  "  I  am  resolute  to  die  in 
the  last  ditch,  for  the  good  of  the  cause." 

"  Die  in  a  ditch ! "  muttered  gruff  Silas,  with  genuine 
Yankee  intolerance  of  any  intermission  of  toil,  except  on 
Sunday,  the  fourth  of  July,  the  autumnal  cattle-show, 
Thanksgiving,  or  the  annual  Fast.  "  Die  in  a  ditch  ! 
I  believe,  in  my  conscience,  you  would,  if  there  were  no 
steadier  means  than  your  own  labor  to  keep  you  out 
of  it!" 

The  truth  was,  that  an  intolerable  discontent  and 
irksomeness  had  come  over  me.  Blithedale  was  no 
'onger  what  it  had  been.  Everything  was  suddenly 
faded.  The  sun-burnt  and  arid  aspect  of  our  woods  and 
pastures,  beneath  the  August  sky,  did  but  imperfectly 
symbolize  the  lack  of  dew  and  moisture  that,  since  yes 
terday,  as  it  ATere,  had  blighted  my  fields  of  thought, 
and  penetrated  to  the  innermost  and  shadiest  of  my 
contemplative  recesses.  The  change  will  be  recognized 
oy  many,  who,  after  a  period  of  happiness,  have  endeav 
ored  to  go  on  with  the  same  kind  of  life,  in  the  same 
scene,  in  spite  of  the  alteration  or  withdrawal  of  some 
principal  circumstance.  They  discover  (what  heretofore 
perhaps,  they  had  not  known)  that  it  was  this  which  gave 
the  bright  color  and  vivid  reality  to  the  whole  affair 


LEAVE-TAKINGS.  lf 

i  stood  01  other  terms  than  before,  not  only  with 
i  Idlings  worth,  but  with  Zenobia  and  Priscilla.  As 
regarded  the  two  latter,  it  was  that  dream-like  and 
miserable  sort  of  change  that  denies  you  the  p'ivi- 
lege  to  complain,  because  you  can  assert  no  positive 
injury,  nor  lay  your  finger  on  anything  tangible.  It  is 
a  matter  which  you  do  not  see,  but  feel,  and  which, 
when  you  try  to  analyze  it,  seems  to  lose  its  very  exist 
ence,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  sickly  humor  of  your  own. 
Your  understanding,  possibly,  may  put  faith  in  this 
denial.  But  your  heart  will  not  so  easily  rest  satisfied. 
It  incessantly  remonstrates,  though,  most  of  the  time,  in 
a  bass-note,  which  you  do  not  separately  distinguish ; 
but,  now  and  then,  with  a  sharp  cry,  importunate  to  be 
heard,  and  resolute  to  claim  belief.  "  Things  are  not  as 
they  were ! "  it  keeps  saying^  "  You  shall  not  impose 
on  me  !  I  will  never  be  quiet !  I  will  throb  painfully  ' 

will  be  heavy,  and  desolate,  and  shiver  with  cold 
.For  I,  your  deep  heart,  know  when  to  be  miserable,  as 
once  I  knew  when  to  be  happy  !  All  is  changed  for 
us  !  You  are  beloved  no  more  ! "  And,  were  my  life 
to  be  spent  over  again,  I  would  invariably  lend  mv 
ear  to  this  Cassandra  of  the  inward  depths,  howeve* 
clamorous  the  music  and  the  merriment  of  a  more  super 
ficial  region. 

My  outbreak  with  Hollingsworth,  though  never  det 
niteiy  known  to  our  associates,  had  really  an  effect  upon 
the  moral  atmosphere  of  the  Community.  It  was  inci 
dental  to  the  closeness  of  relationship  into  which  we  had 
broight  ourselves,  that  an  unfriendly  state  of  feeling 
could  not  occur  be  ween  any  two  members,  without  the 
tvhole  society  bein$  more  or  Vss  commoted  md  mad  l 


*6  THE     BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

uncomfortable  thereby.  This  species  of  nervous  sym« 
pathy  (though  a  pretty  characteristic  enough,  sentiment 
ally  considered,  and  apparently  betokening  an  actual 
bond  of  love  among  us)  was  yet  found  rather  inconven 
ient  in  its  practical  operation  ;  mortal  tempers  being  so 
infirm  and  variable  as  they  are.  If  one  of  us  happened 
to  give  his  neighbor  a  box  on  the  ear,  the  Tingle  was 
immediately  felt  on  the  same  side  of  everybody's  head. 
Thus,  even  on  the  supposition  that  we  were  far  less 
quarrelsome  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  a  great  deal  of 
time  was  necessarily  wasted  in  rubbing  our  'ears. 

Musing  on  all  these  matters,  I  felt  an  inexpressible 
longing  for  at  least  a  temporary  novelty.  I  thought  of 
g-oing  across  the  Rocky  Mountains,  or  to  Europe,  or  up 
the  Nile  ;  of  offering  myself  a  volunteer  on  the  Explor 
ing  Expedition ;  of  taking  a  ramble  of  years,  no  matter 
in  what  direction,  and  coming  back  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world.  Then,  should  the  colonists  of  Blithedale 
have-  established  their  enterprise  on  a  permanent  basis,  I- 
might  fling  aside  my  pilgrim  staff  and  dusty  shoon,  and 
rest  as  peacefully  here  as  elsewhere.  Or,  in  case  Hoi- 
ingsworth  should  occupy  the  ground  with  his  School 
of  Reform,  as  he  now  purposed,  I  might  plead  earthly 
guilt  enough,  by  that  time,  to  give  me  what  I  was, 
inclined  to  think  the  only  trustworthy  hold  on  his  affec- 
tions.  Meanwhile,  before  deciding  on  any  ultimate 
plan,  I  determined  to  remove  myself  to  a  little  distance, 
and  take  an  externr  view  of  what  we  had  all  been  about. 

In  truth,  it  was  dizzy  work,  amid  such  fermentation 
of  opinions  as  was  going  on  in  the  general  brain  of  the 
Community.  It  was  a  kind  of  Bedlam,  for  the  time 
being  although  out  of  the  very  thoughts  that  were 


LEAVE-TAKINGS.  161 

wildest  and  mc^t  destructive  might  grow  a  wisdom 
holy,  calm  and  pure,  and  that  should  incarnate  itself 
•with  the  substance  of  a  m  ble  and  happy  life.  But,  as 
matters  now  were,  I  felt  myself  (and,  having  a  decided 
tendency  towards  the  actual,  I  never  liked  to  feel  it)  get 
ting  quite  out  of  my  reckoning,  with  regard  to  the  exist 
ing  state  of  the  world.  I  was  beginning  to  lose  the  sense 
of  what  kind  of  a  world  it  wasr  among  innumerable 
schemes  of  what  it  might  or  ought  to  be.  It  was  im 
possible,  situated  as  we  were,  not  to  imbibe  the  idea  that 
everything  in  nature  and  human  existence  was  fluid,  or 
fast  becoming  so ;  that  the  crust  of  the  earth  in  many 
places  was  broken,  and  its  whole  surface  portentously 
upheaving ;  that  it  was  a  day  o«  crisis,  and  that  we  our 
selves  were  in  the  critical  vortex.  Our  great  globe 
floated  in  the  atmosphere  of  infinite  space  like  an  un 
substantial  bubble.  No  sagacious  man  will  long  retain 
nis  sagacity,  if  he  live  exclusively  among  reformers  and 
progressive  people,  without  periodically  returning  into 
the  settled  system  of  things,  to  correct  himself  by  a  new 
observation  from  that  old  stand-point. 

It  was  now  time  for  me,  therefore,  to  go  and  hold  a 
little  talk  with  the  conservatives,  the  writers  of  the  North 
American  Review,  the  merchants,  the  politicians,  the 
Cambridge  men,  and  all  those  respectable  old  blockheads 
who  still,  in  this  intangibility  and  mistiness  of  affairs, 
kept  a  death-grip  on  one  or  twj  ideas  which  had  not 
come  '.nto  vogue  since  yesterday  morning. 

The  brethren  took  leave  of  me  with  cordial  kindness ; 
and  as  for  the  sisterhood,  I  had  serious  thoughts  of  kiss- 
ing  them  all  round,  but  forebore  to  do  so,  because,  in 
til  such  gene'al  salutations,  the  penance  is  fuUy  equal  to 


108  THE    BLITHE  JAL£    ROMANCfc. 

the  pleasure.     So  I  kissed  none  of  them;   owl  nobody 
to  say  the  truth,  seemed  to  expect  it. 

"  Do  you  wish  me,"  I  said  to  Zenobia,  "  to  annouuce,* 
in  town  and  at  the  watering-places,  your  purpose  to 
Oliver  a  course  of  lectures  on  the  rights  of  women  ?  " 

"  Women  possess  no  rights,"  said  Zenobia,  with  a 
naif-melancholy  smile ;  "  or,  at  all  events,  only  little 
girls  and  grandmothers  would  have  the  force  to  exercise 
them." 

She  gave  me  her  hand  freely  and  kindly,  and  looked 
at  me,  I  thought,  with  a  pitying  expression  in  her  eyes  ; 
nor  was  there  any  settled  light  of  joy  in  them  on  her 
own  behalf,  but  a  troubled  and  passionate  flame,  flicker- 
ing  and  fitful. 

"  I  regret,  on  the  whole,  that  you  are  leaving  us,"  she 
said ;  "  and  all  the  more,  since  I  feel  that  this  phase  of 
our  life  is  finished,  and  can  never  be  lived  over  again. 
Do  you  know,  Mr.  Coverdale,  that  I  have  been  several 
times  on  the  point  of  making  you  my  confidant,  for  lack 
of  a  better  and  wiser  one  ?  But  you  are  too  young  to 
be  my  father  confessor ;  and  you  would  not  thank  me 
for  treating  you  like  one  of  those  good  little  handmaidens 
who  share  the  bosom  secrets  of  a  tragedy-queen." 

"  I  would,  at  least,  be  loyal  and  faithful,"  answered  I, 
"  an  I  would  counsel  you  with  an  honest  purpose,  if  not 
wisely." 

"  Yes,"  said  Zenobia,  "  you  would  be  only  too  wise 
too  honest.  Honesty  and  wisdom '  are  such  a  delightful 
pastime,  at  another  person's  expense  !  " 

"  Ah,  Zenobia,"  I  exclaimed,  "  if  you  would  but  'et 
me  speak ! " 

"  By  no  m^aus,"  she  replied,  "  especially  when  yot. 


LEAVE-T4  K^NGS.  9 

have  just  resumed  the  whole  series  of  social  tcnvention- 
alisms,  together  with  that  straight-bodied  coat.  I  would 
as  lief  Dpen  my  heart  to  a  lawyer  or  a  clergyman  !  No, 
no,  Mr.  Coverdale ;  if  I  choose  a  counsellor,  in  the  pres 
ent  aspect  of  my  affairs,  it  must  be  either  an  angel  or  a 
madman  ;  and  I  rather  apprehend  that  the  latter  would 
be  likeliest  of  the  two  to  speak  the  fitting  word.  It 
needs  a  wild  steersman  when  we  voyage  through  chaos ! 
The  anchor  is  up  —  farewell !  " 

Priscilla,  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  had  betaken  her 
self  into  a  corner,  and  set  to  work  on  a  little  purse.  As 
i  approached  her,  she  let  her  eyes  rest  on  me  with  u 
oalm,  serious  look ;  for,  with  all  her  delicacy  of  nerves, 
there  was  a  singular  self-possession  in  Priscilla,  and  her 
sensibilities  seemed  to  lie  sheltered  from  ordinary  com 
motion,  like  the  water  in  a  deep  well. 

"  Will  you  give  me  that  purse,  Priscilla,"  said  I,  "  as 
a  parting  keepsake  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  if  you  will  wait  till  it  is 
finished." 

"  I  must  not  wait,  even  for  that,"  1  replied.  "  Shall  I 
hrd  you  here,  on  my  return?" 

"  I  never  wish  to  go  away,"  said  she. 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  observed  I,  smiling, 
**  that  you,  Priscilla,  are  a  little  prophetess ,  or,  at  least, 
ihat  you  have  spiritual  intimations  respecting  matters 
which  are  dark  to  us  grosser  people.  If  that  be  the 
case,  I  shou'd  like  to  ask  you  what  is  about  to  happen ; 
for  I  am  toimented  with  a  strong  foreboding  that,  were 
I  to  return  even  so  soon  as  to-morrow  morning,  I  should 
find  everything  changed.  Have  you  any  impressicr*.  of 
this  nature  7 " 


170  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

k<Ah,  no,"  said    Priscilla,  looking   at   mo 
ively.     "  If  any  such  misfortune  is  coming,  the  shadow 
Has  not  reached  me  yet.     Heaven  forbid  !     I  should  be 
glad  if  there  might  never  be  any  change,  but  one  sum 
mer  fol'ovv  another,  and  all  just  like  this." 

:'  No  summer  ever  came  back,  and  no  two  summers 
ever  were  alike,''  said  I,  with  a  degree  of  Orphic  wisdom 
that  astonished  myself.  "  Times  change,  and  people 
change  ;  and  if  our  hearts  do  not  change  as  readily,  so 
much  the  worse  for  us.  Good-by,  Priscilla  !  " 

I  gave  her  hand  a  pressure,  which,  I  think,  she  neither 
resisted  nor  returned.  Priscilla's  heart  was  deep,  but  of 
small  compass ;  it  had  room  but  for  a  very  few  dearest 
ones,  among  whom  she  never  reckoned  me. 

On  the  door-step  I  met  Hollingsworth.  I  had  a  mo- 
rientary  impulse  to  hold  out  my  hand,  or  at  least  to  give 
a  parting  nod,  but  resisted  both.  When  a  real  and 
strong  affection  has  come  to  an  end,  it  is  not  well  to 
mock  the  sacred  past  with  any  show  of  those  common 
place  civilities  that  belong  to  ordinary  intercourse.  Being 
dead  henceforth  to  him,  and  he  to  me,  there  could  be  no 
propriety  in  our  chilling  one  another  with  the  touch  of 
two  corpse-like  hands,  or  playing  at  looks  of  courtesy 
with  eyes  that  were  impenetiible  beneath  the  glaze  and 
the  film.  We  passed,  therefore,  as  if  mutually  in  vis 
tble. 

I  can  nowise  explain  what  sort  of  whim,  prank  or  per 
versity,  it  was,  that,  after  all  these  leave-takings,  induced 
me  to  go  to  the  pig-sty,  and  take  leave  of  the  swine  ' 
There  they  lay,  buried  as  deeply  among  the  straw  as 
they  could  burrow,  four  huge  black  grunters,  the  very 
symbols  of  slothful  ease  and  sensual  confort.  Thej 


LEAVE-TAKINGS.  171 

were  asleep  drawing  short  and  heavy  breaths,  which 
heavrd  their  big  sides  up  and  down.  Unclosing  theii 
eyes,  however,  at  my  approach,  they  looked  dimly  forth 
at  the  outer  world,  and  simultaneously  uttered  a  gentle 
grunt ;  not  putting  themselves  to  the  trouble  of  an  addi 
tional  breath  for  that  particular  purpose,  but  grunting 
,vith  their  ordinary  inhalation.  They  were  involved, 
and  almost  stifled  and  buried  alive,  in  their  own  corpo 
real  substance.  The  very  .unreadiness  and  oppression 
wherewith  these  greasy  citizens  gained  breath  enough  to 
keep  their  life-machinery  in  sluggish  movement,  ap 
peared  to  make  them  only  the  more  sensible  of  the  pon 
derous  an-1  fat  satisfaction  of  their  existence.  Peeping 
at  me,  an  jistant,  out  of  their  small,  red,  hardly  percepti 
ble  eyes  they  dropt  asleep  again ;  yet  not  so  far  asleej 
but  that  their  unctuous  bliss  was  still  present  to  them, 
betwixt  dream  and  reality. 

"  You  must  come  back  in  season  to  eat  part  ot  a 
spare-rib,"  said  Silas  Foster,  giving  my  hand  a  mighty 
squeeze.  "I  shall  have  these  fat  fellows  hanging  up  by 
the  heels,  heads  downward,  pretty  soon,  I  tell  you  ! " 

"  0,  cruel  Silas,  what  a  horrible  idea  !  "  cried  I.  "  All 
the  rest  of  us,  men,  women  and  live-stock,  save  only 
ihese  four  porkers,  are  bedevilled  with  one  grief  or  an 
other  ;  they  alone  are  happy,  —  and  you  mean  to  cut 
their  throats  and  eat  them  !  It  would  bo  more  for  the 
genen.  comfort  to  let  them  eat  us  and  bu^*?  and  soul 
\fiOTSt  ,3  we  sh;\i  d  be ! f 


XVII. 

THE  HOTEL 

ARRIVING  in  town  (where  my  bachelor-rooms,  long 
before  this  time,  had  received  some  other  occupant),  1 
established  myself,  for  a  day  or  two,  in  a  certain  respect- 
uble  hotel.  It  was  situated  somewhat  aloof  from  my 
tormer  track  in  life ;  my  present  mood  inclining  me  to 
avoid  most  of  my  old  companions,  from  whom  1  was 
now  sundered  by  other  interests,  and  who  would  have 
been  likely  enough  to  amuse  themselves  at  the  expense 
of  the  amateur  working-man.  The  hotel-keeper  put  me 
into  a  back-room  of  the  third  story  of  his  spacious  estab 
lishment.  The  day  was  lowering,  with  occasional  gusts 
of  rain,  and  an  ugly-tempered  east  wind,  which  seemed 
to  come  right  off  the  chill  and  melancholy  sea,  hardly 
mitigated  by  sweeping  over  the  roofs,  and  amalgamating 
itself  with  the  dusky  element  of  city  smoke.  All  the 
effeminacy  of  past  days  had  returned  upon  me  at  once* 
Summer  as  it  still  was,  I  ordered  a  coal-fire  in  the  rusty 
grate,  and  was  glad  to  find  myself  growing  a  little  too 
warm  with  an  artificial  temperature. 

My  sensations  were  those  of  a  traveller,  long  sojourn 
ing  in  remote  regions,  and  at  length  sitting  down  again 
amid  customs  on,  j  familiar.  There  was  a  newness  ana 
an  oldness  oddly  combining  themselves  into  one  impres- 
sio  i  It  made  me  acutely  sensible  how  sirange  a  piece 
of  mosaic -work  had  lately  been  wrought  Into  m}  life 


THE    HOTEL.  173 

True,  if  you  look  at  it  in  one  way,  it  had  been  cnly  a 
summer  in  the  country.  But,  considered  in  a  profoundei 
relation,  it  was  part  of  another  age,  a  different  state  of 
society,  a  segment  of  an  existence  peculiar  in  its  aims  and 
methods,  a  leaf  of  some  mysterious  volume  interpolated 
into  the  current  history  which  time  was  writing  off.  At 
one  moment,  the  very  circumstances  now  surrounding 
me  —  my  coal-fire,  and  the  dingy  room  in  the  bustling 
hotel  —  appeared  far  off  and  intangible ;  the  next  instant 
Blithedale  looked  vague,  as  if  it  were  at  a  distance 
Doth  in  time  and  space,  and  so  shadowy  that  a  question 
might  be  raised  whether  the  whole  affair  had  been  any 
thing  more  than  the  thoughts  of  a  speculative  man.  1 
had  never  before  experienced  a  mood  that  so  robbed  the 
actual  world  of  its  solidity.  It  nevertheless  involved  a 
charm,  on  which  —  a  devoted  epicure  of  my  own  emo 
tions —  I  resolved  to  pause,  and  enjoy  the  moral  sillabub 
u.itil  quite  dissolved  away. 

Whatever  had  been  my  taste  for  solitude  and  natural 
scenery,  yet  the  thick,  foggy,  stifled  element  of  cities, 
the  entangled  life  of  many  men  together,  sordid  as  it 
was.,  and  empty  of  the  beautiful,  took  quite  as  strenuous 
a  hold  upon  my  mind.  I  felt  as  if  there  could  never  be 
enbugh  of  it.  Each  characteristic  sound  was  too  sug 
gestive  to  be  passed  over  unnoticed.  Beneath  and 
around  me,  I  heard  the  stir  of  the  hotel ;  the  loud  voices 
of  guests,  landlord,  or  bar-keeper ;  steps  echoing  on  the 
stair-case  ;  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  announcing  arrivals  or 
departures ;  the  porter  lumbering  past  my  door  with  bag 
gage,*  which  he  thumped  down  upon  the  floors  of  neigh 
boring  chambers ;  the  lighter  feet  of  chamber-maids 
scudding  along  the  passages  ;  —  it  is  ridiculous  to  tbr.rV 


174  THE  IBLITIIE DALE  ROMANCE. 

what  an  interest  they  had  for  me  !  From  the  street 
came  the  tumult  of  the  pavements,  pervading  the  whole 
house  with  a  continual  uproar,  so  broad  and  deep  that 
only  nn  unaccustomed  ear  would  dwell  upon  it.  A 
company  of  the  city  soldiery,  with  a  full  military  band 
inarched  in  front  of  the  hotel,  invisible  to  me,  but  stir 
ringly  audible  both  by  its  foot-tramp  and  the  clangor  of 
its  instruments.  Once  or  twice  all  the  city  bells  jangled 
together,  announcing  a  fire,  which  brought  out  the 
engine-men  and  their  machines,  like  an  army  with  its 
artillery  rushing  to  battle.  Hour  by  hour  the  clocks  iu 
many  steeples  responded  one  to  another.  In  some  public 
hall,  not  a  great  way  off,  there  seemed  to  be  an  exhibi 
tion  of  a  mechanical  diorama ;  for,  three  times  during 
the  day,  occurred  a  repetition  of  obstreperous  music, 
winding  up  with  the  rattle  of  imitative  cannon  and 
musketry,  and  a  huge  final  explosion.  Then  ensued  the 
applause  of  the  spectators,  with  clap  of  hands,  and 
thump  of  sticks,  and  the  energetic  pounding  of  their 
heels.  All  this  was  just  as  valuable,  in  its  way,  as  the 
sighing  of  the  breeze  among  the  birch-trees  that  over 
shadowed  Eliot's  pulpit. 

Yet  I  felt  a  hesitation  about  plunging  into  this  muddy 
tide  of  human  activity  and  pastime.  It  suited  roe  better, 
for  the  present,  to  linger  on  the  brink,  or  hover  in  the 
air  above  it.  So  I  spent  the  first  day  and  the  greater 
part  of  the  second  in  the  laziest  mai.  aer  possible,  in,  a 
rocking-chair,  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  a  series  of  cigars 
with  my  legs  and  slippered  feet  horizontally  disposed, 
and  in  my  hand  a  novel  purchased  of  a  railroad  biblio 
polist.  The  gradual  waste  of  my  cigar  accomplished 
itself  with  an  easy  and  gentle  expei  diture  of  breath.  M>' 


THE    HOTEL. 


bo-»k  cvas  of  th?  dullest,  yet  had  a  sort  of  sluggish  flow, 
.iks  that  of  a  strsam  in  which  your  boat  is  as  often 
aground  as  afloat.  Had  there  been  a  more  impetuous 
rush,  a  more  absorbing  passion  of  the  narrative,  I  should 
the  sooner  have  struggled  out  of  its  uneasy  current,  and 
have  given  myself  up  to  the  swell  and  subsidence  of  my 
thoughts.  But,  as  it  was,  the  torpid  life  of  the  book 
served  as  an  unobtrusive  accompaniment  to  the  life 
within  me  and  about  me.  At  intervals,  however,  when 
its  effect  grew  a  little  too  soporific,  —  not  for  my 
patience,  but  for  the  possibility  of  keeping  my  eyes  open, 
—  I  bestirred  myself,  started  from  the  rocking-chair,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window. 

A  gray  sky  ;  the  weathercock  of  a  steeple,  that  rose 
beyond  the  opposite  range  of  buildings,  pointing  from  the 
pastward  ;  a  sprinkle  of  small,  spiteful-looking  raindrops 
on  the  window-pane.  In  that  ebb-tide  of  my  energies 
had  I  thought  of  venturing  abroad,  these  tokens  \voul£ 
have  checked  the  abortive  purpose. 

After  several  such  visits  to  the  window,  1  found 
myself  getting  pretty  well  acquainted  with  that  little 
portion  of  the  backside  of  the  universe  which  it  presented 
to  my  view.  Over  against  the  hotel  and  its  adjacent 
houses,  at  the  distance  of  forty  or  fifty  yards,  was  the 
rear  of  a  range  of  buildings,  which  appeared  to  be 
spacious,  modern,  and  calculated  for  fashionable  resi 
dences.  The  interval  between  was  apportioned  into 
grass-plots,  and  here  and  there  an  apology  for  a  garden, 
pertaining  severally  to  tiiese  dwellings.  There  were 
apple-trees,  and  pear  and  peach  trees,  too,  the  fruit  on 
which  looked  singularly  large,  luxuriant  and  aVundant, 
<js  we)1  <it  iright,  in  a  ^'tuation  so  warm  and  sheltered, 


f78  THE    BLITHEDALb    ROMANCE. 

and  where  the  soil  had  doubtless  been  enriched  to  a 
more  than  natural  fertility.  In  two  or  three  places 
grape-vines  clambered  upon  trellises,  and  bore  clusters 
already  purple,  and  promising  the  richness  of  Malta  01 
Madeira  in  their  ripened  juice.  The  blighting  winds  of 
our  rigid  climate  could  not  molest  these  trees  and  vines ; 
the  sunshine,  though  descending  late  into  this  area,  and 
too  early  intercepted  by  the  height  of  the  surrounding 
houses,  yet  lay  tropically  there,  even  when  less  than 
temperate  in  every  other  region.  Dreary  as  was  the 
day,  the  scene  was  illuminated  by  not  a  few  sparrows  and 
other  birds,  which  spread  their  wings,  and  flitted  and 
fluttered,  and  alighted  now  here,  now  there,  and  busily 
scratched  their  food  out  of  the  wormy  earth.  Most  of 
tjiese  winged  people  seemed  to  have  their  domicile  in  a 
robust  and  healthy  button  wood-tree.  It  aspired  upward, 
high  above  the  roof  of  the  houses,  and  spread  a  dense 
head  of  foliage  half  across  the  area. 

There  was  a  cat  —  as  there  invariably  is,  in  such 
places  —  who  evidently  thought  herself  entitled  to  all 
the  privileges  of  forest-life,  in  this  close  heart  of  city 
conventionalisms.  I  watched  her  creeping  along  the 
low,  flat  roofs  of  the  offices,  descending  a  flight  of 
wooden  steps,  gliding  among  the  grass,  and  besieging 
the  buttonwood-tree,  with  murderous  purpose  against  its 
feathered  citizens.  But,  after  all,  they  were  birds  cf 
r.ity  breeding,  and  doubtless  knew  how  to  guard  them 
selves  against  the  peculiar  perils  of  their  position. 

Bewitching  to  my  fancy  are  all  those  nooks  and  cran 
nies,  where  Nature,  like  a  stray  partridge,  hides  her  head 
among  the  long-established  haunts  of  men !  It  is  like 
arise  U  be  remarked,  as  a  general  rule,  that  there  is  fai 


THE    HOTEL  L71 

more  of  the  picturesque,  more  truth  to  native  and 
characteristic  tendencies,  and  vastly  greater  suggestive- 
ntss,  in  the  back  view  of  a  residence,  whether  in  town 
or  country,  than  in  its  front.  The  latter  is  always  arti 
ficial  ;  it  is  meant  for  the  world's  eye,  and  is  therefore  a 
veil  and  a  concealment.  Realities  keep  in  the  rear,  and 
put  forward  an  advance-guard  of  show  and  humlng. 
The  posterior  aspect  of  any  old  farm-house,  behind  which 
a  railroad  has  unexpectedly  been  opened,  is  so  different 
from  that  looking  upon  the  immemorial  highway,  that 
the  spectator  gets  new  ideas  of  rural  life  and  individu 
ality  in  the  puff  or  two  of  steam-breath  which  shoots 
him  past  the  premises.  In  a  city,  the  distinction  be- 
tween  what  is  offered  to  the  public  and  what  is  kept  foi 
the  family  is  certainly  not  less  striking. 

But,  to  return  to  my  window,  at  the  back  of  the  hotel . 
Together  with  a  due  contemplation  of  the  fruit-tree? 
the  grape-vines,  the  button  wood-tree,  the  cat,  the  birdt 
and  many  other  particulars,  I  failed  not  to  study  the  row 
of  fashionable  dwellings  to  which  all  these  appertained. 
Here,  it  must  be  confessed,  there  was  a  general  same 
ness.  From  the  upper  story  to  the  first  floor,  they  were 
so  much  alike,  that  I  could  only  conceive  of  the  inhab 
itants  as  cut  out  on  one  identical  pattern,  like  little 
wooden  toy-people  of  German  manufacture.  One  long, 
united  roof,  with  its  thousands  of  slates  glittering  in  the 
rain,  extended  over  the  whole.  After  the  distinctness 
of  separate  characters  to  which  I  had  recently  been 
accustomed,  it  perplexed  and  annoyed  me  not  to  be  able 
to  reso  ve  this  combination  of  human  interests  into  well- 
denned  elements.  It  seemed  hardly  worth  while  foT 
more  than  one  of  those  families  to  be  in  existence,  sine* 
12 


i?S  THE    ELITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

they  ail  had  the  vime  glimpse  of  the  sky,  aL  .ooked  into 
the  same  area,  all  received  just  their  equal  share  of  sun 
shine  through  the  front  windows,  and  all  listened  to 
precisely  the  same  noises  of  the  street  on  which  they 
boarded.  Men  are  so  much  alike  in  their  nature,  that 
they  grow  intolerable  unless  varied  by  their  circum 
stances, 

Just  about  this  time,  a  waiter  entered  my  room.  The 
truth  was,  I  had  rung  the  bell  and  ordered  a  sherry- 
cobbler. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  I  inquired,  "  what  families  reside 
in  any  of  those  houses  opposite  ? ' 

"  The  one  right  opposite  is  a  rather  stylish  boarding- 
house,"  said  the  waiter.  "  Two  of  the  gentlemen- 
boarders  keep  horses  at  the  stable  of  our  establishment,. 
They  do  things  in  very  good  style,  sir,  the  people  thai 
live  there." 

I  might  have  found  out  nearly  as  much  for  myself,  on 
examining  the  house  a  little  more  closely.  In  one  of 
the  upper  chambers  I  saw  a  young  man  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  standing  before  the  glass  and  brushing  his  hair, 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together.  He  then  spent  an 
equal  space  of  time  in  the  elaborate  arrangement  of  his 
;ravat,  and  finally  made  his  appearance  in  a  dress-coat, 
vhich  I  suspected  to  be  newly  come  from  the  tailor's, 
and  now  first  put  on  for  a  dinner-party.  At  a  window 
01  vJie  next  story  below,  two  children,  prettily  dressed, 
were  looking  out.  By  and  by,  a  middle-aged  gentleman 
came  softly  behind  them,  kissed  the  little  girl,  and  play 
fully  pulled  the  little  boy's  ear.  It  was  a  papa,  no 
doubt,  just  come  in  from  his  counting-room  01  office ; 
ftnd  anon  appeared  mamma,  stealing  us  softly  behind 


THE    HOTEL.  179 

papa.  ,is  he  haj  stolen  behind  the  children,  and  laying 
ner  hand  on  his  shoulder,  to  surprise  him.  Then  fol 
lowed  a  kiss  between  papa  and  mamma ;  but  a  noiseless 
one,  for  the  children  did  not  turn  their  heads. 

"  I  bless  God  for  these  good  folks  !  "  thought  I  to  my- 
se.f.  "I  have  not  seen  a  prettier  bit  of  nature,  in  a., 
my  summer  in  the  country,  than  they  have  shown  me 
here,  in  a  rather  stylish  boarding-house.  I  will  pay 
them  a  little  more  attention,  by  and  by." 

On  the  first  floor,  an  iron  balustrade  ran  along  in 
front  of  the  tall  and  spacious  windows,  evidently  belong 
ing  to  a  back  drawing-room ;  and,  far  into  the  interior, 
through  the  arch  of  the  sliding-doors,  I  could  discern  a 
gleam  from  the  windows  of  the  front  apartment.  There 
were  no  signs  of  present  occupancy  in  this  suite  of  rooms 
the  curtains  being  enveloped  in  a  protective  covering, 
which  allowed  but  a  small  portion  of  their  crimson  mate- 
lial  to  be  seen.  But  two  housemaids  were  Industriously  at 
work ;  so  that  there  was  good  prospect  that  the  boarding- 
louse  might  not  long  suffer  from  the  absence  of  its  most 
expensive  and  profitable  guests.  Meanwhile,  until  they 
should  appear,  I  cast  my  eyes  downward  to  the  lower 
regions.  There,  in  the  dusk  that  so  early  settles  into 
such  places,  I  saw  the  red  glow  of  th£  kitchen-range. 
The  hot  cook,  or  one  of  her  subordinates,  with  a  ladle  in 
her  hand,  came  to  draw  a  cool  breath  at  the  back-door. 
As  soon  as  she  disappeared,  an  Irish  man-servant,  in  a 
white  jacket,  crept  slyly  forth,  and  threw  awr.y  the  frag 
ments  of  a  china  dish,  which,  unquestionably,  he  had 
just  broken.  Soon  afterwards,  a  lady,  showily  dressed, 
with  a  curling  front  of  what  must  have  been  false  hair, 
rrd  reddish-brown,  I  suppose,  in  hue  —  though  mj 


18C  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

remoteness  allowed  me  only  to  guess  at  such  particulars 
—  this  respectable  mistress  of  the  ooarding-house  made 
a  momentary  transit  across  the  kitchen  window,  and 
appeared  no  more.  It  was  her  final,  comprehensive 
glance,  in  order  to  make  sure  that  soup,  fish  and  flesh 
were  in  a  proper  state  of  readiness,  before  the  serving  up 
of  dinner. 

There  was  nothing  else  worth  noticing  about  the 
house,  unless  it  be  that  on  the  peak  of  one  of  the 
dormer-windows  which  opened  out  of  the  roof  sat  a 
dove,  looking  very  dreary  and  forlorn  ;  insomuch  that  I 
wondered  why  she  chose  to  sit  there,  in  the  chilly  rain, 
while  her  kindred  were  doubtless  nestling  in  a  warm  and 
comfortable  dove-cote.  All  at  once,  this  dove  spread  her 
wings,  and,  launching  herself  in  the  air,  came  flying  so 
straight  across  the  intervening  space  that  I  fully  expected 
her  to  alight  directly  on»my  window-sill.  In  the  lattei 
part  of  her  course,  however,  she  swerved  aside,  flew 
upward,  and  vanished,  as  did,  likewise,  the  Flight,  fan 
tastic  pathos  with  wh:.ch  I  had  invested  her. 


XVIII. 

THE  BOARDING-HOUSE. 

THE  next  day,  as  soon  as  I  thought  of  looking  again 
towards  the  opposite  house,  there  sat  the  dove  again,  on 
the  peak  of  the  same  dormer-window ! 

It  was  by  no  means  an  early  hour,  for,  the  preceding 
evening,  I  had  ultimately  mustered  enterprise  enough 
to  visit  the  theatre,  had  gone  late  to  bed,  and  slept 
beyond  all  limit,  in  my  remoteness  from  Silas  Foster's 
awakening  horn.  Dreams  had  tormented  me,  through 
out  the  night.  The  train  of  thoughts  which,  for  months 
past,  had  worn  a  track  through  my  mind,  and  to  escape 
which  was  one  of  my  chief  objects  in  leaving  Blithedale, 
kept  treading  remorselessly  to  and  fro  in  their  old  foot 
steps,  while  slumber  left  me  impotent  to  regulate  them. 
It  was  not  till  I  had  quitted  my  three  friends  that  they 
first  began  to  encroach  upon  my  dreams.  In  those  of 
the  last  night,  Hollingsworth  and  Zenobia,  standing  on 
either  side  of  my  bed,  had  bent  across  it  to  exchange  a 
kiss  of  passion.  Priscilla,  beholding  this,  —  for  she 
weemdd  to  be  peeping  in  at  the  chamber-window,  —  had 
melted  gradually  away,  and  left  only  the  sadness  of  hei 
expression  in  my  heart.  There  it  still  lingered,  after  1 
awoke ;  one  of  those  unreasonable  sadnesses  that  you 
know  not  how  to  deal  with,  because  it  involves  nothing 
for  common  sense  to  clutch. 

It  was  a  gray  and  dripping  forenoon  •  gloomy  enough 


182  THE    BLITIIED^LE    ROMANCE. 

in  town,  and  still  gloomier  in  the  haunts  to  which  mj| 
recollections  persisted  in  transporting  me.  For,  in  spite 
of  my  efforts  to  think  of  something  else,  I  thought  how 
che  gusty  rain  was  drifting  over  the  slopes  and  valleys 
of  our  firm ;  how  wet  must  be  the  foliage  that  over 
shadowed  the  pulpit-rock  ;  how  cheerless,  in  such  a  day,, 
my  hermitage,  —  the  tree-solitude  of  my  owl -like  hu 
mors,  —  in  the  vine-encircled  heart  of  the  tall  p  ne  !  It 
was  a  phase  of  home-sickness.  I  had  wrenched  myself 
tco  sudi;T\ly  out  of  an  accustomed  sphere.  There  was 
no  choice,  now,  but  to  bear  the  pang  of  whatever  heart 
strings  were  snapt  asunder,  and  that  illusive  torment 
(like  the  ache  of  a  limb  long  ago  cut  off)  by  which  a 
past  mode  of  life  prolongs  itself  into  the  succeeding  one. 
I  was  full  of  idle  and  shapeless  regrets.  The  thought 
impressed  itself  upon  me  that  I  had  left  duties  unper 
formed.  With  the  power,  perhaps,  to  act  in  the  place 
of  destiny  and  avert  misfortune  from  my  friends,  I  had 
resigned  them  to  their  fate.  That  cold  tendency,  be 
tween  instinct  and  intellect,  which  made  me  pry  with  a 
speculative  interest  into  people's  passions  and  impulses, 
appeared  to  have  gone  far  towards  imhumanizing  my 
1  eart. 

But  a  man  cannot  always  decide  for  himself  whether 
his  own  heart  is  cold  or  warm.  It  now  impresses  me. 
that,  if  1  erred  at  all  in  regard  to  Hollingsworth,  Zeno- 
oia  arid  Priscilla,  it  was  through  too  much  sympathy, 
rather  than  *oo  little. 

To  escape  the  irksomeness  of  these  meditations,  1 
resumed  my  post  at  the  window.  At  first  sight,  there 
was  nothing  new  to  be  noticed.  The  general  aspect  of 
affairs  vvas  the  same  as  yesterday,  except  that  the  more 


THE    BOARDLNG  iIOUSE.  183 

decided  inclemency  of  to-day  had  driven  the  sparro\\  s  to 
shelter  uni  kept  the  cat  within  doors;  whence,  how 
ever,  she  soon  emerged,  pursued  by  the  cook,  and  with 
what  looked  like  the  better  half  of  a  roast  chicken  in 
her  mouth.  The  young  man  in  the  dress-coat  was  invis 
ible  ;  the  two  children,  in  the  story  below,  seemed  to  be 
romping1  about  the  room,  under  the  superintendence  of  a 
nursery-maid.  The  damask  curtains  of  the  drawing- 
room,  on  the  first  floor,  were  now  fully  displayed,  fes 
tooned  gracefully  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  windows, 
which  extended  from  the  ceiling  to  the  carpet.  A  nar 
rower  window,  at  the  left  of  the  drawing-room,  gave 
light  to  what  was  probably  a  small  boudoir,  within  which 
[  caught  the  faintest  imaginable  glimpse  of  a  girl's  figure, 
in  airy  drapery.  Her  arm  was  in  regular  movement,  as 
if  she  were  busy  with  her  German  worsted,  or  some 
other  such  pretty  and  unprofitable  handiwork. 

While  intent  upon  making  out  this  girlish  shape,  1 
became  sensible  that  a  figure  had  appeared  at  one  of  the 
vvindows  of  the  drawing-room.  There  was  a  present 
iment  in  my  mind ;  or  perhaps  my  first  glance,  imper 
fect  and  sidelong  as  it  was,  had  sufficed  to  convey  subtle 
information  of  the  truth.  At  any  rate,  it  was  with  no 
positive  surprise,  but  as  if  I  had  all  along  expected  the 
incident,  that,  directing  my  eyes  thitherward,  I  beheld  — 
like  a  full-length  picture,  in  the  space  between  the  heavy 
festoons  of  the  window-curtains  —  no  other  than  Zeno- 
hia !  At  the  same  instant,  my  thoughts  made  sure  of 
the  identity  of  the  figure  in  the  bi/.ido  r.  It  could  only 
D€  Prise  ilia. 

Zenobia  was  attired,  not  in  the  almost  rustic  costume 
which  she  had  heretofore  worn,  but  in  a  fashiouali1*5 


.84  THE    BLITHEDALE   ROMANCE. 

morning-dress.  There  was,  nevertheless,  ons  familiar 
point.  She  had,  as  u?ual,  a  flower  in  her  hair,  brilliant 
and  of  a  rare  variety,  else  it  had  not  been  Zenobia. 
After  a  brief  pause  at  the  window,  she  turned  away, 
exemplifying,  in  the  few  steps  that  removed  her  out  of 
sight,  that  noble  and  beautiful  motion  which  character 
ized  her  as  much  as  any  other  personal  charm.  Not 
one  woman  in  a  thousand  could  move  so  admirably  as 
Zenobia.  Many  women  can  sit  gracefully ;  some  can 
stand  gracefully;  and  a  few,  perhaps,  can  assume  a 
series  of  graceful  positions.  But  natural  movement  is 
the  result  and  expression  of  the  whole  being,  and  cannot 
be  well  and  nobly  performed,  unless  responsive  to  some 
thing  in  the  character.  I  often  used  to  think  that  music 

-  light  and  airy,  wild  and  passionate,  or  the  full  har 
mony  of  stately  marches,  in  accordance  with  her  varying 
mood  —  should  have  attended  Zenobia's  footsteps. 

I  vaited  for  her  reappearance.  It  was  one  peculiarity, 
distinguishing  Zenobia  from  most  of  her  sex,  that  she 
needed  for  her  moral  well-being,  and  never  would  forego, 
a  lartre  amount  of  physical  exercise.  At  Blithedale,  no 
inclemency  of  sky  or  muddiness  of  earth  had  ever  im 
peded  her  daily  walks.  Here,  in  town,  she  probably 
preferred  to  tread  the  extent  of  the  two  drawing-rooms 
and  measure  out  the  miles  by  spaces  of  forty  feet,  ralhet 
than  bedraggle  her  skirts  over  the  sloppy  pavements. 
Accord ingly,  ;n  about  the  time  requisite  to  pass  through 
the  arch  of  t^e  sHding-doors  to  the  front  window,  and  to 
return  upon  her  ^teps,  there  she  ?tood  again,  between  the 
festoons  of  the  Crimson  curtains.  But  another  per?on« 
age  was  now  added  to  *he  scene.  Behind  Zenobia 
appeared  that  face  which  T  had  first  encountered  in  the 


TITS    BOARDING-FOUSE  185 

wood-path ;  the  man  who  had  passed,  side  by  side  with 
her,  in  such  mysterious  familiarity  and  estrangement, 
beneath  my  vine-curtained  hermitage  in  the  tall  pine- 
tree.  It  was  Westervelt.  And  though  he  was  looking 
closely  over  her  shoulder,  it  still  seemed  to  me,  as  ^n  the 
former  occasion,  that  Zenobia  repelled  him,  —  that,  per 
chance,  they  mutually  repelled  each  other,  by  some 
incompatibility  of  their  spheres. 

This  impression,  however,  might  have  been  altogether 
the  result  of  fancy  and  prejudice  in  me.  The  distance 
was  so  great  as  to  obliterate  any  play  of  feature  by 
which  I  might  otherwise  have  been  made  a  partaker  of 
their  counsels. 

There  now  needed  only  Hollingsworth  and  old  Moodie 
to  complete  the  knot  of  characters,  whom  a  real  intricacy 
of  events,  greatly  assisted  by  my  method  of  insulating 
them  from  other  relations,  had  kept  so  long  upon  my 
mental  stage,  as  actors  in  a  drama.  In  itself,  perhaps, 
it  was  no  very  remarkable  event  that  they  should  thus 
come  across  me,  at  the  moment  when  I  imagined  myself 
free.  Zenobia,  as  I  well  knew,  had  retained  an  estab 
lishment  in  town,  and  had  not  unfrequently  withdrawn 
herself  from  Blithedale  during  brief  intervals,  on  one 
of  which  occasions  she  had  taken  Priscilla  along  with 
her.  Nevertheless,  there  seemed  something  fatal  in  the 
coincidence  that  had  borne  me  to  this  one  spot,  of  all 
others  in  a  great  city,  and  transfixed  me  there,  and  com 
pelled  me  again  to  waste  my  already  wearied  sympathies 
on  affairs  which  were  none  of  m'^e,  and  persons  who 
cared  little  for  me.  It  irritated,  my  nerves ;  it  affected 
me  with  a  kind  of  heart-sickness.  After  the  effort  which 
it  cost  me  to  fling  them  off,  —  after  consummating  in  y 


THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

escape,  as  1  thought,  from  these  goblins  of  flesh  ma 
blood,  and  pausing  to  revive  myself  with  a  breath  or  two 
o."  an  atmosphere  in  which  they  should  have  no  share, 
—  it  was  a  positive  despair,  to  find  the  same  figures 
arraying  themselves  before  me,  and  presenting  their  old 
problem  in  a  shape  that  made  it  more  insoluble  than 
ever. 

I  began  to  long  for  a  catastrophe.  If  the  noble  tern 
per  of  Hollingsworth's  soul  were  doomed  to  be  utterly 
corrupted  by  the  too  powerful  purpose  which  had  grown 
out  of  what  was  noblest  in  him ;  if  the  rich  and  gener 
ous  qualities  of  Zenobia's  womanhood  might  not  pavo 
her;  if  Priscilla  must  perish  by  her  tenderness  and 
faith,  so  simple  and  so  devout,  —  then  be  it  so  !  Let  it 
all  come  !  As  for  me,  I  would  look  on,  as  it  seemed  my 
part  to  do,  understandingly,  if  my  intellect  could  fathom 
the  meaning  and  the  moral,  and,  at  all  events,  reverently 
and  sadly.  The  curtain  fallen,  I  would  pass  onward 
with  my  poor  individual  life,  which  was  now  attenuateu 
of  much  of  its  proper  substance,  and  diffused  among 
many  alien  interests. 

Meanwhile,  Zenobia  and  her  companion  had  retreated 
from  the  window.  Then  followed  an  interval,  during 
which  I  directed  my  eyes  towards  the  figure  in  the  bou 
doir.  Most  certainly  it  was  Priscilla,  although  dressed 
with  a  novel  and  fanciful  elegance.  The  vague  percep 
tion  of  it,  as  viewed  so  far  off,  impressed  me  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  passed  out  of  a  chrysalis  state  and  put 
forth  wings.  Her  hands  were  not  now  in  motion.  She 
had  dropt  her  work,  and  sat  with  her  head  thrown  back, 
in  the  same  attitude  that  I  had  seen  several  times  before 


1HE    BOAKDliNG-HOTTSE . 

wnen  she  seemtd  to  oe  listening  to  an  impeifectly  dis 
tinguished  sound. 

Again  the  two  figures  in  the  drawing-room  became 
*  isible.  They  were  now  a  little  withdrawn  from  the 
window,  face  to  face,  and,  as  I  could  see  by  Zenobia's 
emphatic  gestures,  were  discussing  some  subject  in  which 
she,  at  least,  felt  a  passionate  concern.  By  and  by  she 
broke  away,  and  vanished  beyond  my  ken.  Wester- 
veit  approached  the  window,  and  leaned  his  forehead 
against  a  pane  of  glass,  displaying  the  sort  of  smile  on 
his  handsome  features  which,  when  I  before  met  him 
had  let  me  into  the  secret  of  his  gold-bordered  teeth. 
Every  human  being,  when  given  over  to  the  devil,  is 
sure  to  have  the  wizard  mark  upon  him,  in  one  form  01 
another.  I  fancied  that  this  smile,  with  its  peculiar 
revelation,  was  the  devil's  signet  on  the  Professor. 

This  man,  as  I  had  soon  reason  to  know,  was  endowed 
with  a  cat-like  circumspection ;  and  though  precisely  the 
most  unspiritual  quality  in  the  world,  it  was  almost  as 
effective  as  spiritual  insight  in  making  him  acquainted 
with  whatever  it  suited  him  to  discover.  He  now 
proved  it,  considerably  to  my  discomfiture,  by  detecting 
and  recognizing  me,  at  my  post  of  observation.  Per 
haps  I  ought  to  have  blushed  at  being  caught  in  such  an 
evident  scrutiny  of  Professor  Westervelt  and  his  affairs. 
Perhaps  I  did  blush.  Be  that  as  it  might,  I  retained  pres 
ence  of  mind  enough  not  to  make  my  position  yet  more 
irksome,  by  the  poltroonery  of  drawing  back. 

Westervelt  looked  into  the  depths  of  the  drawing-room, 
and  beckoned.  Immediately  afterwards,  Zenobia  ap 
peared  at  the  window,  with  color  much  heightened,  and 
eyes  which,  as  my  conscience  whispered  me  were  shoot- 


188  THE     BLITHE  DALE    HOtfANCJJ. 

ing  bright  arrows,  barbed  with  scorn,  across  the  mtei 
vening  space,  directed  full  at  my  sensibilities  as  a  gen 
tleman.  If  the  trutn  must  be  told,  far  as  her  flight-shot 
was,  those  arrows  hit  the  mark.  She  signified  her 
recognition  ot  me  by  a  gesture  with  her  head  and  hand, 
comprising  at  once  a  salutation  and  dismissal.  The 
next  moment,  she  administered  one  of  those  pitiless 
rebukes  which  a  woman  always  has  at  hand,  ready  for 
an  offence  (and  which  she  so  seldom  spares,  on  duo 
occasion),  by  letting  down  a  white  linen  curtain  between 
the  festoons  of  the  damask  ones.  It  fell  like  the  drop- 
curtain  of  a  theatre,  in  the  interval  between  the  acts 

Priscilla  had  disappeared  from  the  bcudoir.  But  the 
dove  still  kept  l.er  desolate  perch  on  the  peak  of  th« 
attic-window 


XIX 

ZENOBIA'S  DRAWING-ROOM. 

THE  remainder  of  tne  day,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
was  spent  in  meditating-  on  these  recent  incidents, 
contrived,  and  alternately  rejected,  innumerable  method? 
of  accounting  for  the  presence  of  Zenobia  and  Priscill^ 
and  the  connection  of  Westervelt  with  both.  Jt  must 
be  owned,  too,  that  I  had  a  keen,  revengeful  sense  of 
the  insult  inflicted  by  Zenobia's  scornful  recognition, 
and  more  particularly  by  her  letting  down  the  curtain , 
as  if  such  were  the  proper  barrier  to  be  interposed 
between  a  character  like  hers  and  a  perceptive  faculty 
likf  mine.  For,  was  mine  a  mere  vulgar  curiosity  ? 
Zenobia  should  have  known  me  better  than  to  suppose 
it.  She  should  have  been  able  to  appreciate  that  quality 
of  the  intellect  and  the  heart  which  impelled  me  (often 
against  my  own  will,  and  to  the  detriment  of  my  own 
comfort)  to  live  in  other  lives,  and  to  endeavor  —  by 
generous  sympathies,  by  delicate  intuitions,  by  taking 
note  of  things  too  slight  for  record,  and  by  bringing  my 
numan  spirit  into  manifold  accordance  with  the  compari 
ions  whom  God  assigned  me — to  learn  the  secret  which 
was  hidden  even  from  themselves. 

Of  all  possible  observers,  methought  a  woman  like 
Zenobia  and  a  man  like  Hollingsworth  should  have 
selected  me.  And,  now,  when  *.he  event  has  long  teen 
past,  1  retain  the  same  opinion  of  rny  fitness  for  the 


^9C  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

office  True,  I  might  have  condemned  them.  Had  I 
been  judge,  as  woll  as  witness,  my  sentence  might  have 
been  stern  as  that  of  destiny  itseli.  But,  still,  no  trait 
of  original  nobility  of  character,  no  struggle  against 
temptation;  —  no  iron  necessity  of  will,  on  the  one  hand, 
nor  extenuating  circumstance  to  be  derived  from  passion 
and  despair,  on  the  other, —  no  remorse  that  might  coexist 
with  error,  even  if  powerless  to  prevent  it,  —  no  proud 
repentance  that  should  claim  retribution  as  a  meed, — 
would  go  unappreciated.  True,  again,  I  might  give  my 
full  assent  to  the  punishment  which  was  sure  to  follow. 
But  it  would  be  given  mournfully,  and  with  undimin- 
ished  love.  And,  after  all  was  finished,  I  would  come, 
as  if  to  gather  up  the  white  ashes  of  those  who  had  per 
ished  at  the  stake,  and  to  tell  the  world  —  the  wrong 
being  now  atoned  for — how  much  had  perished  there 
which  it  had  never  yet  known  how  to  praise. 

I  sat  in  my  rocking-chair,  too  far  withdrawn  from 
the  window  to  expose  myself  to  another  rebuke  like 
that  already  inflicted.  My  eyes  still  wandered  towards 
the  opposite  house,  but  without  effecting  any  new  dis 
coveries.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  the  weathercock  on  the 
church-spire  indicated  a  change  of  wind ;  the  sun  shone 
limly  out,  as  if  the  golden  wine  of  its^beams  were  min- 
ijled  half-and-half  with  water.  Nevertheless,  they  kin- 
•lied  up  the  whole  range  of  edifices,  threw  a  glow  over 
the  windows  glistened  on  the  wet  roofs,  and,  slowly 
withdrawing  upward,  perched  upon  the  chimney-tops  : 
thence  they  took  a  higher  flight,  and  lingered  an  instant 
on  the  tip  of  the  spire,  making  it  the  final  pcint  of  more 
cheerful  light  in  the  whole  sombre  scene.  The  next 
moment  it  was  all  gone.  The  twilight  fell  into  tbu 


ZENOBIA'S  DRAWING-ROOM.  19 

*rea  like  a  shower  of  dusky  snow ,  and  before  it  was 
nuite  lark,  the  gong  of  the  hotel  summoned  me  to  tea. 

When  I  returned  to  my  chamber,  the  glow  of  an 
astral -lamp  was  penetrating  mistily  through  the  white 
curtain  of  Zenobia's  drawing-room.  The  shadow  of  a 
passing  figure  \vas  now  and  then  cast  upon  this  medium, 
but  with  too  vague  an  outline  for  even  my  adventurous 
conjectures  to  read  the  hieroglyphic,  that  it  presented. 

All  at  once,  it  occurred  to  me  how  very  absurd  was 
my  behavior,  in  thus  tormenting  myself  with  crazy 
hypotheses  as  to  what  was  going  on  within  that  drawing- 
room,  when  it  was  at  my  option  to  be  personally  present 
there.  My  relations  with  Zenobia,  as  yet  unchanged,  — 
as  a  familiar  friend,  and  asso:iated  in  the  same  life-long 
enterprise,  —  gave  me  the  right,  and  made  it  no  more 
than  kindly  courtesy  demanded,  to  call  on  her.  Noth 
ing,  except  our  habitual  independence  of  conventional 
rules  at  Blithedale,  could  have  kept  me  from  sooner 
recognizing  this  duty.  At  all  events,  it  should  now  be 
performed. 

In  compliance  with  this  sudden  impulse,  I  soon  found 
myself  actually  within  the  house,  the  rear  of  which,  for 
two  days  past,  I  had  been  so  sedulously  watching.  A 
servant  took  my  card,  and  immediately  returning,  ush 
ered  me  up  stairs.  On  the  way,  I  heard  a  rich,  and,  as 
it  were,  triumphant  burst  of  music  from  a  piano,  in  which 
I  felt  Zenobia's  character,  although  heretofore  I  had 
known  nothing  of  her  skill  upon  the  instrument.  Two 
or  three  canary-birds,  excited  by  this  gush  of  sound, 
sang  piercingly,  and  did  their  utmost  to  produce  a  kin 
dred  melody  A  bright  illumination  streamed  through 
>be  loor  of  the  front  drawing-room ;  and  I  had  barely 


.92  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

dtept  act oss  the  threshold  before  Zenobia  came  forwnrd 
*o  meet  mev  laughing,  and  with  an  extended  hand. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Coverdale,"  said  she,  still  smiling,  but,  as  I 
thought  with  a  good  deal  of  scornful  anger  underneath, 
"  it  has  gratified  me  to  see  the  interest  which  you  con« 
tinue  to  take  in  my  affairs  !  I  have  long  recognized 
you  as  a  sort  of  transcendental  Yankee,  wi-th  all  the 
native  propensity  of  your  countrymen  to  investigate 
matters  that  come  within  their  range,  but  rendered 
almost  poetical,  in  your  case,  by  the  refined  methods 
which  you  adopt  for  its  gratification.  After  all,  it  was 
an  unjustifiable  stroke,  on  my  part, —  was  it  not  ? —  to 
let  down  the  window-curtain ! " 

"  I  cannot  call  it  a  very  wise  one,"  returned  I,  with  a 
secret  bitterness,  which,  no  doubt,  Zenobia  appreciated 
"  It  is  really  impossible  to  hide  anything,  in  this  world, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  next.  All  that  we  ought  to  ask, 
therefore,  is,  that  the  witnesses  of  our  conduct,  and  the 
speculators  on  our  motives,  should  be  capable  of  taking 
the  highest  view  which  the  circumstances  of  the  case 
may  admit.  So  much  being  secured,  I,  for  one,  would 
be  most  happy  in  feeling  myself  followed  every  where 
by  an  indefatigable  human  sympathy." 

"  We  must  trust  for  intelligent  sympathy  to  our 
guardian  angels,  if  any  there  be,"  said  Zenobia.  "  As 
'ong  as  the  only  spectator  of  my  poor  tragedy  is  a 
young  man  at  the  window  of  his  hotel,  I  must  sfriL 
claim  the  liberty  to  drop  the  curtain." 

While  this  passed,  as  Zenobia's  hand  was  extended,  I 
had  applied  the  very  slightest  touch  of  my  fingers  tc 
her  own.  In  spite  of  an  external  freedom  her  manner 
made  me  sensible  'hat  we  stood  upon  no  real  terms  'A 


2.ENOBIAS    DRAWING-ROOM.  19*t 

ronAdence.  The  thought  came  sadly  across  me,  how 
great  was  the  contrast  betwixt  this  interview  and  our 
first  meeting.  Then,  in  the  warm  light  of  the  country 
fireside,  Zenobia  had  greeted  me  cheerily  and  hopefully, 
with  a  full,  sisterly  grasp  of  the  hand,  conveying  as  much 
'kindness  in  it  is  other  women  could  have  evinced  by 
the  pressure  of  both  arms  around  my  neck,  of  by  yield 
ing  a  cheek  to  the  brotherly  salute.  The  difference  was 
as  complete  as  between  her  appearance  at  that  time,  —  so 
simply  attired,  and  with  only  the  one  superb  flower  in  her 
hair,  —  and  now,  when  her  beauty  was  set  off  by  all  that 
dress  and  ornament  could  do  for  it.  And  they  did  much. 
Not,  indeed,  that  they  created  or  added  anything  to  what 
Nature  had  lavishly  done  for  Zenobia.  But,  those 
costly  robes  which  she  had  on,  those  flaming  jewels  on 
her  neck,  served  as  lamps  to  display  the  personal  advan 
tages  wnich  required  nothing  less  than  such  an  illumi 
nation  to  be  fully  seen.  Even  her  characteristic  flower 
though  it  seemed  to  be  still  there,  had  undergone  a  cold 
,md  bright  transfiguration ;  it  was  a  flower  exquisitely 
imitated  in  jeweller's  work,  and  imparting  the  last 
touch  that  transformed  Zenobia  into  a  work  of  art. 

"  I  scarcely  feel,'  I  could  not  forbear  saying,  "  as  if  we 
had  ever  met  before.  How  many  years  ago  it  seems 
since  we  last  sat  beneath  Eliot's  pulpit,  with  Hollings- 
worth  extended  on  the  fallen  leaves,  and  Priscilk  at  his 
feet!  Can  it  be,  Zenobia,  that  you  ever  really  numbered 
yourself  with  our  little  band  of  earnest,  thoughtful,  phi 
lanthropic  aborers  ? " 

"  Those  ideas  have  their  time  and  place,"  she   an 
swered,  coldly.     "  But  I  fancy  it  must  be  a  ve  ry  circura1 
»cribod  mind  that  can  find  room  for  no  otherc. ' 
13 


94  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE 

Her  manner  bewildered  me.  Literally,  moreover,  i 
was  dazzled  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  room.  A  chandelier 
hung  down  in  the  centre,  glowing  with  I  know  not  how 
many  lights ;  there  were  septate  lamps,  also,  on  two  or 
three  tables,  and  on  marble  brackets,  adding  their  white 
radiance  to  that  of  the  chandelier.  The  furniture  was 
exceedingly  rich.  Fresh  from  our  old  farm-house,  with 
its  homely  board  and  benches  in  the  dining-room,  and  a 
few  wicker  chairs  in  thr  best  parlor,  it  struck  me  that 
here  was  the  fulfilment  of  every  fantasy  of  an  imagina 
tion  revelling  in  various  methods  of  costly  selfindu'- 
gence  and  splendid  ease.  Pictures,  marbles,  vases,  —  in 
brief,  more  shapes  of  luxury  than  there  could  be  any 
object  in  enumerating,  except  for  an  auctioneer's  adver 
tisement,  —  and  the  whole  repeated  and  doubled  by 
the  reflection  of  a  great  mirror,  which  showed  me  Zeno- 
bia's  proud  figure,  likewise,  and  my  own.  It  cost  me,  1 
acknowledge,  a  bitter  sense  of  shame,  to  perceive  in 
myself  a  positive  effort  to  bear  up  against  the  effect 
which  Zenobia  sought  to  impose  on  me.  I  reasoned 
against  her,  in  my  secret  mind,  and  strove  so  to  keep 
my  footing.  In  the  gorgeousness  with  which  she  had 
surrounded  herself,  —  in  the  redundance  of  personal  orna 
ment,  which  the  largeness  of  her  physical  nature  and  the 
rich  type  of  her  beauty  caused  to  seem  so  suitable,  —  I 
malevolently  beheld  the  true  character  of  the  woman, 
passionate,  luxurious,  lacking  simplicity,  not  deeply 
refined,  incapable  of  pure  and  perfect  taste. 

But,  the  next  instant,  she  was  too  powerful  for  all  in^ 
opposing  struggles.  I  saw  how  fit  it  was  that  she 
should  make  herseif  as  gorgeous  as  she  pleased,  and 
shouid  do  a  thousand  things  that  would  have  been  ridic 
nlous  in  the  poor,  thin,  weakly  characters  of 


ZfiNOBIAS    DRAWUfG-ROOM.  195 

To  this  day,  however,  I  hardly  know  whethei 
I  then  beheld  Zenobia  in  her  truest  attitude,  or  whether 
that  were  the  truer  one  in  which  she  had  presented  her 
self  at  Blivhedale.  In  both,  there  was  something  like 
the  illusion  which  a  great  actress  flings  around  her. 

"  Have  you  given  up  Blithedale  forever  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Why  should  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  she. 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  answered  I ;  "  except  that  it  appears 
all  iike  a  dream  that  we  were  ever  there  together." 

"It  is  not  so  to  me,"  said  Zenobia.  "I  should  think 
it  a  poor  and  meagre  nature,  that  is  capable  of  but  one 
set  of  forms,  and  must  convert  all  the.  past  into  a  dream 
merely  because  the  present  happens  to  be  unlike  it. 
Why  should  we  be  content  with  our  homely  life  of  a 
few  months  past,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  modes  ?  I* 
was  good;  but  there  are  other  lives  as  good,  or  better 
Not,  you  will  understand,  that  1  condemn  those  who  give 
themselves  up  to  it  more  entirely  than  I,  for  myself, 
should  deem  it  wise  to  do." 

It  irritated  me,  this  self-complacent,  condescending- 
qualified  approval  and  criticism  of  a  system  to  which 
many  individuals  —  perhaps  as  highly  endowed  as  our 
gorgeous  Zenobia  —  had  contributed  their  all  of  earthly 
endeavor,  and  their  loftiest  aspirations.  I  determined  to 
make  proof  if  there  were  any  spell  that  would  exorcise 
her  out  of  the  part  which  she  seemed  to  be  acting.  She 
should  be  compelled  to  give  me  a  glimpse  of  something 
true;  some  nature,  some  passion,  no  matter  whether 
right  or  wrong,  provided  it  were  rea  . 

•*  Your  allusion  to  that  class  of  circ  umscribed  charac 
ters,  who  can  live  only  in  one  mode  01  life,"  remarked  I 
coolly,  "  reminds  me  of  our  poor  friend  Hollingsworth. 
I  ossibly  he  was  in  your  thoughts  when  you  spoke  thu* 


196  THE    BLiTHEDALE    ROMANCE 

Poor  fellow !  It  is  a  pity  that,  by  the  fault  of  a  nai  row 
education,  he  should  have  so  completely  immolrfed  him 
"elf  to  that  one  idea  of  his  ;  especially  as  the  slightest 
•nodicum  of  common  sense  would  teach  hirr.  its  uttel 
mpracticability.  Now  that  I  have  returned  into  the 
world,  and  can  look  at  his  project  from  a  distance,  it 
requires  quite  all  my  real  regard  for  this  respecable  arid 
well-intentioned  man,  to  prevent  rne  laughing  at  him.  — 
as  I  find  society  at  large  does." 

Zenobia's  eyes  darted  lightning ;  her  cheeks  flushed ; 
the  vividness  of  her  expression  was  like  the  effect  of  a 
powerful  light  flaming  up  suddenly  within  her.  My 
experiment  had  fully  succeeded.  She  had  shown  me 
the  true  flesh  and  blood  of  her  heart,  by  thus  involunta 
rily  resenting  my  slight,  pitying,  half-kind,  half-scornful 
mention  of  the  man  who  was  all  in  all  with  her.  She 
herself  probably  felt  this  ;  for  it  was  hardly  a  moment 
before  she  tranquillized  her  uneven  breath,  and  seemed 
as  proud  and  self-possessed  as  ever. 

"  I  rather  imagine,"  said  she,  quietly,  "  that  your 
appreciation  falls  short  of  Mr.  Hollingsworth's  just 
claims.  Blind  enthusiasm,  absorption  in  one  idea,  I 
grant,  is  generally  ridiculous,  and  must  be  fatal  to  the 
respectability  of  an  ordinary  man;  it  requires  a  very 
high  and  powerful  character  to  make  it  otherwise.  But 
a  great  man  —  as,  perhaps,  you  do  not  know  —  attains 
his  normal  condition  only  through  the  inspiration  of  one 
great  idea.  As  a  friend  of  Mr.  Hollingsworth,  and,  at 
tne  same  time,  a  calm  observer,  I  must  tell  you  that  he 
seems  to  me  such  a  man.  But  you  are  very  pardonable 
for  fancying  him  ridiculous.  Doubtless,  he  is  so  —  to 
you!  There  can  be  no  truer  test  of  the  noble  and 
heroic,  in  any  mduidaal,  than  the  degree  in  which  he 


ZENOBL*'3    DRAWING-ROOM.  197 

the    faculty   of  distinguishing  heroism   from 
absurdity." 

I  dared  make  nc  retort  to  Zenobia's  concluding  apo 
thegm.  In  truth,  I  admired  her  fidelity.  It  gave  me  a 
new  sense  of  Hollingsworth's  native  power,  to  discover 
that  his  influence  was  no  less  potent  with  this  beautifu 
woman,  here,  in  the  midst  of  artificial  life,  than  it  had 
been  at  the  foot  of  the  gray  rock,  and  among  the  wild 
birch-trees  of  the  wood-path,  when  she  so  passionately 
pressed  his  hand  against  her  heart.  The  great,  rude, 
shaggy,  swarthy  man  !  And  Zenobia  loved  him  ' 

"  Did  you  bring  Priscilla  with  you  ? "  I  resumed. 
"  Do  you  know  1  have  sometimes  fancied  it  not  quite 
safe,  considering  the  susceptibility  of  her  temperament, 
that  she  should  be  so  constantly  within  the  sphere  of  a 
man  like  Hollingsworth.  Such  tender  and  delicate 
natures,  among  your  sex,  have  often,  I  believe,  a  very 
adequate  appreciation  of  the  heroic  element  in  men. 
But  then,  again,  I  should  suppose  them  as  likely  as  any 
o.ther  women  to  make  a  reciprocal  impression.  Hollings 
worth  could  hardly  give  his  affections  to  a  person  capa 
ble  of  taking  an  independent  stand*,  but  only  to  one  whom 
he  might  absorb  into  himself.  He  has  certainly  shown 
great  tenderness  for  Priscilla." 

Zenobia  had  turned  aside.  But  I  caught  the  reflection 
of  her  face  in  the  mirror,  and  saw  that  it  was  very  pale, 
—as  pale,  in  her  rich  attire,  as  if  a  shroud  were  round  her. 

"  Priscilla  is  here,"  said  she,  her  voice  a  little  lower 
thin  usual.  "  Have  not  you  learnt  as  much  from  your 
chamber  window  ?  Would  you  like  to  see  her  ?  " 

She  made  a  step  or  two  into  the  back  drawings-room, 
and  called, 

«  Priscilla  !     Dear  Pfscilla  '  " 


XX. 

THEY  VANISH. 

immediately  answerer   the  summons,  ard 
made  her  appearance  through  the  djor  of  the  boudoir. 

I  had  conceived  tae  idea,  which  I  now  recognized  as  a 
very  foolish  one,  that  Zenobia  would  have  taken  meas 
ures  to  debar  me  from  an  interview  with  this  girl,  be 
tween  whom  and  herself  there  was  so  utter  an  opposition 
of  their  dearest  interests,  that,  on  one  part  or  the  other,  a 
great  grief,  if  not  likewise  a  great  wrong,  seemed  a  mat 
ter  of  necessity.  But,  as  Priscilla  was  only  a  leaf  float 
ing  on  the  dark  current  of  events,  without  influencing 
them  by  her  own  choice  or  plan,  —  as  she  probably 
guessed  not  whither  the  stream  was  bearing  her,  nor 
perhaps  even  felt  its  inevitable  movement,  —  there  could 
be  no  peril  of  her  communicating  to  me  any  intelligence 
with  regard  to  Zenobia's  purposes. 

On  perceiving  me,  she  came  forward  with  great  quiet- 

.  e  of  manner ;  and  when  I  held  out  my  hand,  her  owr 
moved  slightly  towards  it,  as  if  attracted  by  a  feeble 
degree  of  magnetism. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  Priscilla,"  said  I,  still 
nolding  her  hand ;  "  but  everything  that  I  meet  with 
now-a-days,  makes  me  wonder  whether  I  am  awake. 
You,  especially,  have  always  seemed  like  a  figure  in  a 
iream,  and  now  more  than  ever." 

"  O  Uere  ia  substance  in  these  fingers  of  mine*"  sh* 


VANISH.  199 


,  giving  my  hand  the  faintest  possible  pressure, 
and  then  taking  away  her  own.  "  Why  do  you  call  me 
a  dream  ?  Zenobia  is  much  iiore  like  one  than  I;  she 
is  so  very,  very  beautiful  !  And;  I  suppose,"  added  Pris- 
cilia,  as  if  thinking  aloud,  "  everybody  sees  it,  as  1  do." 

Bui,  for  my  part,  it  was  Priscilla's  beauty,  not  Zeno- 
bia's,  of  which  I  was  thinking  at  that  moment.  She 
was  a  person  who  could  be  quite  obliterated,  so  far  as 
beauty  went,  by  anything  unsuitable  in  her  attire  ;  her 
diarm  was  not  positive  and  material  enough  to  bear  up 
against  a  mistaken  choice  of  color,  for  instance,  or  fash 
ion.  It  was  safest,  in  her  case,  to  attempt  no  art  of 
dross  ;  for  it  demanded  the  most  perfect  taste,  or  else 
the  happiest  accident  in  the  world,  to  give  her  precisely 
the  adornment  which  she  needed.  She  was  now  dressed 
in  pure  white,  set  off  with  some  kind  of  a  gauzy  fabric, 
which  —  as  I  bring  up  her  figure  in  my  memory,  with  a 
faint  gleam  on  her  shadowy  hair,  and  her  dark  eyes  bent 
shyly  on  mine,  through  all  the  vanished  years  —  seems 
to  be  floating  about  her  like  a  mist.  I  wondered  what 
Zenobia  meant  by  evolving  so  much  loveliness  out  of 
this  poor  girl.  It  was  what  few  women  could  afford  to 
do  ;  for,  as  I  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  the  sheen  and 
splendor  of  Zenobia's  presence  took  nothing  from  Pris- 
'  villa's  softer  spell,  if  it  might  not  rathei  be  thought  to 
add  to  it. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her  ?  "  asked  Zenobia. 

I  could  not  understand  the  look  of  melancholy  kind 
ness  wiih  \\hich  Zenobia  regarded  her.  She  advanced  a 
step,  and  beckoning  Priscilla  near  her,  kissed  her  cheek  ,• 
then,  with  a  slight  gesture  of  repulse,  she  movod  to  the 
other  side  of  the  rcom  I  followed. 


00  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCfi 

"  She  is  h  \\  onderful  creature,"  1  said.        Ever 
/she  came  among  us,  I  have  been  dimly  s.;iidble  01  just 
ihis  charm  which  you  have  brought  out.     But  it  was 
never  absolutely  visible  till  now.     She  is  as  lovely  as  a 
flower ! " 

"  WelJ  «ay  so  -if  you  like,'  answered  Zenobia.  "  You 
are  a  poet,  —  at  least,  as  poets  go,  now-a-days,  —  and 
must  be  allowed  to  make  an  opera-glass  of  your  imagin 
ation,  when  ^ou  look  at  women.  I  wonder,  in  such  Ar 
cadian  freedom  of  falling  in  love  as  we  have  lately 
enjoyed,  it  never  occurred  to  you  to  fall  in  love  with 
Priscilla.  In  society,  indeed,  a  genuine  American  never 
dreams  of  stepping  across  the  inappreciable  air-line  which 
separates  one  class  from  another.  But  what  was  rani? 
to  the  colonists  of  Blithedale  ?  " 

"  There  were  other  reasons,"  I  replied,  "  why  1  should 
have  demonstrated  myself  an  ass,  had  I  fallen  in  love 
with  Prisciila.  By  the  by,  has  Hollingsworth  ever  seen 
her  in  this  dress  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  bring  up  his  name  at  every  turn  ? " 
asked  Zenobia,  in  an  under  tone,  and  with  a  malign  look 
which  wandered  from  my  face  to  Priscilla's.  "  You 
know  not  what  you  do  !  It  is  dangerous,  sir,  believe 
me,  to  tamper  thus  with  earnest  human  passions,  out  of 
vour  own  mere  idleness,  and  for  your  sport.  I  will 
andure  it  no  longer !  Take  care  that  it  does  not  happen 
again  !  I  warn  you  !  " 

"  You  partly  wrong  me,  if  not  wholly,"  I  responded. 

It  is  an  uncertain  sense  of  some  duty  to  perform,  thai 
rrings  my  thoughts,  and  therefore  my  words,  continually 
o  i. vat  one  point." 

''  O  this  stale  excuse  of  duty ! "  said  Zenobia,  in  a  whis 


1HEY    VANISH  201 

per  so  full  of  scorn  that  it  penetrated  me  like  Jie  hiss  of 
a  serpent.  "  I  have  often  heard  it  before,  from  those  who 
sought  to  interfere  with  me,  and  I  know  precisely  what 
it  signifies.  Bigotry ;  self-conceit ;  an  insolent  curiosity; 
a  meddlesome  temper;  a  cold-blooded  criticism,  founded 
on  a  shallow  interpretation  of  half-perceptions;  a  mon 
strous  scepticism  in  regard  to  any  conscience  or  any  wis 
dom,  except  one's  own  ;  a  most  irreverent  propensity  to 
thrust  Providence  aside,  and  substitute  one's  self  in  its 
awful  place;  —  out  of  these,  and  other  motives  as  miser 
able  as  these,  comes  your  idea  of  duty !  But,  beware, 
sir  I  With  all  your  fancied  acuteness,  you  step  blind 
fold  into  these  affairs.  For  any  mischief  that  may 
follow  your  interference,  I  hold  you  responsible  !  " 

It  was  evident  that,  with  but  a  little  further  provoca 
tion,  the  lioness  would  turn  to  bay ;  if,  indeed,  such  were 
not  her  attitude  already.  I  bowed,  and,  not  very  well 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  was  about  to  withdraw.  But, 
glancing  again  towards  Priscilla,  who  had  retreated  into 
a  corner,  there  fell  upon  my  heart  an  intolerable  burthen 
of  despondency,  the  purport  of  \vhich  I  could  not  tell 
but  only  felt  it  to  bear  reference  to  her.  I  approached 
her,  and  held  out  my  hand;  a  gesture,  however,  to 
which  she  made  no  response.  It  was  always  one  of  her 
peculiarities  that  she  seemed  to  shrink  from  even  the 
most  friendly  touch,  unless  it  were  Zenobia's  or  Hollings- 
worth's,  Zenobia,  all  this  while,  stood  watching  us,  but 
with  a  careless  expression,  as  if  it  mattered  very  littlp 
what  might  pass. 

"  Priscilla,"  I  inquired,  lowering  my  voice,  "  whptt  dc 
rou  go  back  to  BHthedale  ? " 

"  Whenever  they  please  to  take  me,'  said  she. 


202  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

"  Did  you  com^  away  of  your  own  free  will  ?  '  I 
asked. 

"  I  am  blown  about  like  a  leaf,"  she  replied.  "  1 
r*3ver  have  any  free  will." 

"  Does  Hollingsworth  know  that  you  are  here  ?  ' 
said  I. 

"  He  bade  me  come,"  answered  Pnscilla 

She  looked  at  me,  I  thought,  with  an  air  of  surprise, 
as  if  the  idea  were  incomprehensible  that  she  should 
have  taken  this  step  without  his  agency. 

"  Wha*  a  gripe  this  man  has  laid  upon  her  whole 
being!"  muttered  I,  between  my  teeth.  "Well,  as 
Zenobia  so  kindly  intimates,  I  have  no  more  business 
here.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it  all.  On  Hollingsworth's 
head  be  the  consequences  !  Pnscilla,"  I  added,  aloud, 
"  I  know  not  that  ever  we  may  meet  again.  Farewell ! " 

As  I  spoke  the  word,  a  carriage  had  rumbled  along  the 
street,  and  stopt  before  the  house.  The  door-bell  rang, 
and  steps  were  immediately  afterwards  heard  on  the 
staircase.  Zenobia  had  thrown  a  shawl  over  her  dress. 

"  Mr.  Coverdale,"  said  she,  with  cool  courtesy,  "  you 
will  perhaps  excuse  us.  We  have  an  engagement,  an^ 
are  going  out." 

"  Whither  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  Is  not  that  a  little  more  than  you  are  entitled  ta 
inquire  ? "  said  she,  with  a  smile.  "  At  all  events,  it 
does  n  >t  suit  me  to  tell  you." 

The  door  of  the  drawing-room  opened,  and  Westei- 
velt  appeared.  I  observed  that  he  was  elaborately 
dressed,  as  if  for  some  grand  entertainment.  My  dislike 
for  this  man  was  infinite.  At  that  inomeht  it  amounted 
to  rothing  less  than  a  creeping  of  the  flesh,  as  when, 

nhonf    ir>    P    rlorlr    r.lo  -.o    r»r»o   tonrlips   somotbinj? 


THEY    VANISH.  20 

cold  and  slimy,  and  questions  what  the  secret  hateful- 
ness  may  be.  And  still  I  could  not  but  acknowledge 
that,  for  personal  beauty,  for  polish  of  manner,  for  all 
that  externally  befits  a  gentleman,  there  was  hardly 
another  like  him.  After  bowing  to  Zenobia,  and  gra 
ciously  saluting  Priscilla  in  her  corner,  he  recognized 
me  by  a  slight  but  courteous  inclination. 

"  Come,  Priscilla,"  said  Zenobia ;  "  it  is  time.  Mr. 
Coverdale,  good-evening." 

As  Priscilla  moved  slowly  forward,  I  met  her  in  the 
middle  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Priscilla,"  said  I,  in  the  hearing  of  them  all,  "  do 
y  iu  know  whither  you  are  going  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered. 

"Is  it  wise  to  go,  and  is  it  your  choice  to  go?"  1 
asked.  "  If  not,  I  am  your  friend,  and  Hollingsworth's 
friend.  Tell  me  so,  at  once." 

"  Possibly,"  observed  Westervelt,  smiling,  "  Priscilla 
sees  in  me  an  older  friend  than  either  Mr.  Coverdale  or 
Mr.  Hollingsworth.  I  shall  willingly  leave  the  matter 
at  her  option." 

While  thus  speaking,  he  made  a  gesture  of  kindly 
invitation,  and  Priscilla  passed  me,  with  the  gliding 
movement  of  a  sprite,  and  took  his  offered  arm.  He 
offered  the  other  to  Zenobia ;  but  she  turned  her  proud 
and  beautiful  face  upon  him,  with  a  look  which  — judg 
ing  from  what  I  caught  of  it  in  profile  —  would  undoubt 
edly  hav3  smitten  the  man  dead,  had  he  possessed  any 
heart,  or  had  this  glance  attained  to  it.  It  seemed  to 
/abound,  however,  from  his  courteous  visage,  like  an 
arrow  from  polished  steel.  They  all  three  descend-  i 
the  stairs ;  and  when  I  likewise  reached  the  street  do< 
iU°  "*rrmffe  was  already  rolling 


XXI. 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

THUS  excluded  from  everybody's  confidence,  and  «l< 
taming  no  further,  by  my  most  earnest  study,  than  to 
in  uncertain  sense  of  something  hidden  from  me,  it 
vvould  appear  reasonable  that  I  should  have  flung  off  all 
these  alien  perplexities.  Obviously,  my  best  course  was 
to  betake  myself  to  new  scenes.  Here  I  was  only,  an 
intruder.  Elsewhere  there  might  be  circumstances  in 
which  I  could  establish  a  personal  interest,  and  people 
who  would  respond,  with  a  portion  of  their  sympathies, 
for  so  much  as  I  should  bestow  of  mine. 

Nevertheless,  there  occurred  to  me  one  other  thing  to 
be  done.  Remembering  old  Moodie,  and  his  relation 
ship  with  Priscilla,  I  determined  to  seek  an  interview 
for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  whether  the  knot  of 
affairs  was  as  inextricable  on  that  side  as  I  found  it  on 
all  others.  Being  tolerably  well  acquainted  with  the 
old  man's  haunts,  I  went,  the  next  day,  to  the  saloon  of 
a  certain  establishment  about  which  he  often  lurked.  It 
was  a  reputable  place  enough,  affording  good  enter 
tainment  in  the  way  of  meat,  drink,  and  fumigation 
and  there,  in  my  young  and  idle  days  and  nights,  when 
I  was  neither  nice  nor  wise,  I  had  often  amused  myself 
with  watching  the  staid  humors  and  sober  jollities  of  the 
thirsty  souls  around  me. 

At  my  first  pntrance,  old  Moodie  was  net  there.     Th» 


AN    OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  205 

snore  patiently  to  await  him,  I  lighted  a  cigar,  and  estab- 
.ishing  myself  in  a  corner,  took  a  quiet,  and,  by  svmpathy, 
a  boozy  kind  of  pleasure  in  the  customary  life  that  was 
going  forward.  The  saloon  was  fitted  up  with  a  good 
deal  of  taste.  There  were  pictures  on  the  walls,  and 
among  them  an  oil-painting  of  a  beef-steak,  with  such  an 
admirable  show  of  juicy  tenderness,  that  the  behollei 
sighed  to  think  it  merely  visionary,  and  incapable  of 
ever  being  put  upon  a  gridiron.  Another  work  of  high 
art  was  the  life-like  representation  of  a  noble  sirloin, 
another,  the  hind-quarters  of  a  deer,  retaining  the  hoofs 
and  tawny  fur;  another,  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a 
salmon ;  and,  still  more  exquisitely  finished,  a  brace  of 
canvas-back  ducks,  in  which  the  mottled  feathers  were 
depicted  with  the  accuracy  of  a  daguerreotype.  Some- 
very  hungry  painter,  I  suppose,  had  wrought  these  sub 
jects  of  still  life,  heightening  his  imagination  with  his 
appetite,  and  earning,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  privilege  of 
a  daily  dinner  off  whichever  of  his  pictorial  viands  he 
liked  best.  Then,  there  was  a  fine  old  cheese,  in  which 
you  could  almost  discern  the  mites ;  and  some  sardines, 
on  a  small  plate,  very  richly  done,  and  looking  as  if 
oozy  with  the  oil  in  which  they  had  been  smothered. 
All  these  things  were  so  perfectly  imitated,  that  you 
seemed  to  have  the  genuine  article  before  you,  and  yet 
with  an  indescribable  ideal  charm;  it  took  away  the 
grossness  from  what  was  fleshiest  and  fattest,  and  thu^ 
helped  the  life  of  man,  even  in  its  earthliest  relations,  to 
appear  rich  and  nohe,  as  well  as  warm,  cheerful,  and 
i-ubstuntial.  There  were  pictures,  too,  of  gallant  revel- 
>,rs,  —  those  of  the  old  time,  —  Flemish,  apparently,  — 
with  doublets  and  slashed  sleeves,  —  drinking  their  wine 


fcj6  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

jmt  of   ?dhtabtic   long-stemmed    glasses ;    quaffing   joy 
ou sly,    quaffing    forever,   with    inaudible   laughter   and 
song,  \vhile  ths,  Champagne  bubbled  immortally  ag'.iirjit 
their  uustachcj,  or  the   purple  tide  of  Burgundy  ran 
inexhaustibly  down  their  throats. 

But,  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  saloon,  there  was  a 
little  picture  —  excellently  done,  moreover  —  of  a  rag 
ged,  bloated,  New  England  toper,  stretched  out  on  a 
bench,  in  the  heavy,  apoplectic  sleep  of  drunkenness. 
The  death -in-life  was  too  well  portrayed.  You  smeh 
the  fumy  liquor  that  had  brought  on  this  syncope. 
Your  only  comfort  lay  in  the  forced  reflection,  that,  real 
as  he  looked,  the  poor  caitiff  was  but  imaginary,  —  a  bit 
of  painted  canvas,  whom  no  delirium  tremens,  nor  so 
much  as  a  retributive  headache,  awaited,  on  the  mo*- 
row. 

By  this  time,  it  being  past  eleven  o'clock,  the  two 
barkeepers  of  the  saloon  were  in  pretty  constant  activity 
One  of  these  young  men  had  a  rare  faculty  in  the  con 
roction  of  gin-cocktails.  It  was  a  spectacle  to  behold 
how,  with  a  tumbler  in  each  hand,  he  tossed  the  con 
tents  from  one  to  the  other.  Never  conveying  it  awry 
nor  spilling  the  least  drop,  he  compelled  the  frothy 
liquor,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  to  spout  forth  from  one  glass 
and  descend  into  the  other,  in  a  great  parabolic  curve,  as 
well  defined  at  d  calculable  as  a  planet's  orbit.  He  had 
a  good  forehead,  with  a  particularly  large  development 
just  above  the  eyebrows  ;  fine  intellectual  gifts,  no  doubt, 
which  he  had  educated  to  this  profitable  end;  being 
famous  for  nothing  but  gin-cocktails,  and  commanding  a 
fair  salary  by  his  one  accomplishment.  These  cocktails, 
tnd  oth?r  artifi  vial  combinations  of  liquor  (of  which 


AN    OLD    ACQUAINTANCE.  20; 

Acre  were  at  east  a  score,  though  mostly,  I  suspeci 
fantastic  in  their  differences),  were  much  in  favor  with 
the  younger  class  of  customers,  who,  at  furthest,  had 
only  reached  the  second  stage  of  potatory  life.  The 
stanch  old  soakers,  on  the  other  hand,  —  men  who,  if 
put  on  tap,  would  have  yielded  a  red  alcoholic  liquor  by 
way  of  blood,  —  usually  confined  themselves  to  plain 
brandy-and-water,  gin,  or  West  India  rum ;  and,  often 
times,  they  prefaced  their  dram  with  some  medicinal 
remark  as  to  the  wholesomeness  and  stomachic  qualities 
of  that  particular  drink.  Two  or  three  appeared  to  have 
bottles  of  their  own  behind  the  counter ;  and,  winking 
one  red  eye  to  the  barkeeper,  he  forthwith  produced 
these  choicest  and  peculiar  cordials,  which  it  was  a  mat 
ter  of  great  interest  and  favor,  among  their  acquaint 
ances,  to  obtain  a  sip  of. 

Agreeably  to  the  Yankee  habit,  under  whatever  cir 
cumstances,  the  deportment  of  all  these  good  fellows,  old 
or  young,  was  decorous  and  thoroughly  correct.  They 
grew  only  the  more  sober  in  their  cups ;  there  was  no 
'confused  babble  nor  boisterous  laughter.  They  sucked 
in  the  joyous  fire  of  the  decanters,  and  kept  it  smoulder 
ing  in  their  inmost,  recesses,  with  a  bliss  known  only  to 
the  heart  which  it  warmed  and  comforted.  Their  eyes 
twinkled  a  little,  to  be  sure  ;  they  hemmed  vigorously 
after  each  glass,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  the  pit  of  thj 
stomach,  as  if  the  pleasant  titillation  there  was  what 
constituted  the  tangible  part  of  their  enjoyment.  In  that 
spot,  unquestionably,  and  not  in  the  brain,  was  the  acme 
of  the  whole  affair.  But  the  true  purpose  of  their  drink 
ing — and  one  that  will  induce  men  to  drink,  or  do  somf,- 
4tii»ig  eq'i'valent,  as  long  as  this  weary  world  shal 


SOS  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE, 

endure  -  •  was  the  renewed  youth  and  vig(  r,  t\  e  brisk, 
cheerful  sense  of  things  present  and  to  come,  with 
which,  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  dram  per 
meated  their  systems.  And  when  such  q  °arters  of  an 
hour  can  be  obtained  in  some  mode  less  baneful  to  the 
great  sum  of  a  man's  life,  —  but,  nevertheless,  with  a 
little  spice  of  impropriety,  to  give  it  a  wild  flavor,  —  we 
temperance  people  may  ring  out  our  bells  for  victory  ! 

The  prettiest  object  in  the  saloon  was  a  tiny  fountain, 
which  threw  up  its  feathery  jet  through  the  counter,  and 
sparkled  down  again  into  an  oval  basin,  or  lakelet,  con 
taining  several  gold-fishes.  There  was  a  bed  of  bright 
eand  at  the  bottom,  strewn  with  coral  and  rock-work  ; 
und  the  fishes  went  gleaming  about,  now  turning  up  the 
fheen  of  a  golden  side,  and  now  vanishing  into  the 
shadows  of  the  water,  like  the  fanciful  thoughts  that 
coquet  with  a  poet  in  his  dream.  Never  before,  1 
imagine,  did  a  company  of  water-drinkers  remain  so 
entirely  uncontaminated  by  the  bad  example  around 
them;  nor  could  I  help  wondering  that  it  had  not 
occurred  to  any  freakish  inebriate  to  empty  a  glass  of* 
)iquor  into  their  lakelet.  What  a  delightful  idea  !  Whr. 
nrould  not  be  a  fish,  if  he  could  inhale  jollity  with  the 
isssential  element  of  his  existence  ! 

I  had  began  to  despair  of  meeting  old  Moodie,  when,  all 
«  once,  I  recognized  his  hand  and  arm  protruding  from 
dehind  a  screen  that  was  set  up  for  the  accommodation 
of  bashful  topers.  As  a  matter  of  course,  he  had  one  of 
Priscilla's  little  purses,  and  was  qu.ttly  insinuating  it 
ander  the  notice  of  a  person  who  stood  near.  This  wa.« 
liways  old  Moodie's  way.  You  hardly  ever  saw  hirr 
towards  you,  but  became  aware  of  his  proxim 


«    OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  209 

ity  without  being  able  to  guess  how  he  had  come  thither. 
He  glided  about  like  a  spirit,  assuming  visibility  close  to 
your  elbow,  offering  his  petty  trifles  of  merchandise, 
remaining  long  enough  for  you  to  purchase,  if  so  dis 
posed,  and  then  taking  himself  off,  between  two  breaths, 
while  you  happened  to  be  thinking  of  something  else. 

By  a  sort  of  sympathetic  impulse  that  often  controlled 
me  in  those  more  impressible  days  of  my  life,  I  was 
induced  to  approach  this  old  man  in  a  mode  as  undemon 
strative  as  his  own.  Thus,  when,  according  to  his  cus 
tom,  he  was  probably  just  about  to  vanish,  he  found  me 
at  his  elbow. 

"  Ah !  "  said  he,  with  more  emphasis  than  was  usual 
with  him.  "  It  is  Mr.  Coverdale  !  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Moodie,  your  old  acquaintance,"  answered 
1,  "It  is  some  time  now  since  we  ate  our  luncheon 
together  at  Blithedale,  and  a  good  deal  longer  since  our 
little  talk  together  at  the  street-corner." 

"  That  was  a  good  while  ago,"  said  the  old  man. 

And  he  seemed  inclined  to  say  not  a  word  more.  His 
existence  looked  so  colorless  and  torpid,  —  so  very 
faintly  shadowed  on  the  canvas  of  reality,  —  that  I  was 
half  afraid  lest  he  should  altogether  disappear,  even 
while  my  eyes  were  fixed  full  upon  his  figure.  He  was 
certainly  the  wretchedest  old  ghost  in  the  world,  with 
his  crazy  hat,  the  dingy  handkerchief  about  his  throat, 
his  suit  of  threadbare  gray,  and  especially  that  patch 
over  his  right  eye,  behind  which  he  always  seemed  to  be 
liding  himself.  There  was  one  method,  however,  of 
bringing  him  out  into  somewhat  stronger  relief.  A  gtas? 
of  brandy  would  effect  it.  Perhaps  the  gentle  r  influence 
of  a  bottle  of  claret  might  do  the  same.  Nor  could  I 
14 


210  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMAIsCE. 

think  it  a  matter  for  the  recording  angel  to  \*  "ite  down 
against  me.  if — with  my  painful  consciousness  of  the. 
frost  in  this  old  man's  blood,  and  the  positive  ice  thai 
had  congealed  about  his  heart  —  I  should  thaw  him  out, 
were  it  only  for  an  hour,  with  the  summer  warmth  of  a 
little  wine.  What  else  could  possibly  be  done  for  him? 
How  else  could  he  be  imbued  with  energy  enough  to 
hope  for  a  happier  state  hereafter?  How  e'Jse  be 
inspired  to  say  his  prayers  ?  For  there  are  states  of  our 
spiritual  system  when  the  throb  of  the  soul's  life  is  too 
faint  and  weak  to  render  us  capable  of  religious  aspira 
tion. 

"Mr.  Moodie,"  said  I,  "shall  we  lunch  together? 
And  would  you  like  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine  ? " 

His  one  eye  gleamed.  He  bowed ;  and  it  impressed 
m-e  that  he  grew  to  be  more  of  a  man  at  once,  either  in 
anticipation  of  the  wine,  or  as  a  grateful  response  to  mv 
good  fellowship  in  offering  it. 

"  With  pleasure,"  he  replied. 

The  barkeeper,  at  my  request,  showed  us  into  a  pri 
vate  room,  and  soon  afterwards  set  some  fried  oysters 
and  a  bottle  of  claret  on  the  table ;  and  I  saw  the  old 
man  glance  curiously  at  the  label  of  the  bottle,  as  if  to 
learn  the  brand. 

"  It  should  be  good  wine,"  I  remarked,  "  if  it  have  any 
right  to  its  label." 

"  You  cannot  suppose,  sir,"  said  Moodie,  with  a  sigh, 
'that  a  poor  old  fellow  like  me  knows  any  difference  in 
wines ." 

And  yet,  in  his  way  of  handling  the  glass,  in  his 
preliminary  snuff  at  the  aroma,  in  his  first  cautious  sip 
*f  the  wine,  and  the  gustatory  skill  with  which  he 


AN    OLD   ACQUAINTANCE.  2 

nis  palate  the  full  advantage  of  it,  it  was  impcssible  not 
'o  recognize  the  connoisseur. 

"  I  fancy,  Mr.  Moodie,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  much  bet- 
*er  judge  of  wines  than  I  have  yet  learned  to  be.  Tell 
me  fairly,  —  did  you  never  drink  it  where  the  grape 
grows  ?  " 

"  How  should  that  have  been,  Mr.  Coverdale  ? " 
answered  old  Moodie,  shyly;  but  then  he  took  courage 
as  it  were,  and  uttered  a  feeble  little  laugh.  "  The  flavor 
of  this  wine,"  added  he,  "  and  its  perfume,  still  mors 
than  its  taste,  makes  me  remember  that  I  was  once  a 
young  man." 

"  I  wish,  Mr.  Moodie,"  suggested  I,  —  not  that  I 
greatly  cared  about  it,  however,  but  was  only  anxious  to 
draw  him  into  some  talk  about  Priscilla  and  Zenobia,  — 
"  I  wish,  while  we  sit  over  our  wine,  you  would  favoi 
me  with  a  few  of  those  youthful  reminiscences." 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head,  "  they  might  inter 
est  you  more  than  you  suppose.  But  I  had  better  be 
silent.  Mr.  Coverdale.  If  this  good  wine,  —  though 
claret,  I  suppose,  is  not  apt  to  play  such  a  trick,  —  but  if 
tt  should  make  my  tongue  run  too  freely,  I  could  never 
look  you  in  the  face  again." 

"  You  never  did  look  me  in  the  face,  Mr.  Moodie,"  1 
replied,  "  until  this  very  moment." 

"  Ah !  "  sighed  old  Moodie. 

It  -was  wonderful,  however,  what  an  effect  the  mild 
g/ape-juice  wrought  upon  him.  It  was  not  in  the  wine,  but 
in  the  associations  which  it  seemed  to  bring  up.  Instc  ad 
of  the  mean,  slouching,  furtive,  painfully  depressed  air  ol 
an  old  city  vagabond,  more  like  a  gray  kennel-rat  than 
any  other  living  thing,  he  began  to  take  the  aspect  of  a 


12  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

decayed  gentleman.  Even  his  garments  —  especially 
after  I  had  myself  quaffed  a  glass  or  two  —  looked  lesi 
shabby  than  when  we  first  sat  down.  There  was,  by 
and  by,  a  certain  exuberance  and  elaborateness  of  ges 
ture  and  manner,  oddly  in  contrast  with  all  that  I  had 
hitherto  seen  of  him.  Anon,  with  hardly  any  impulse 
from  me,  old  Moodie  began  to  talk.  His  communica 
tions  referred  exclusively  to  a  long  past  and  more  fortun 
ate  period  of  his  life,  with  only  a  few  unavoidable  allu 
sions  to  the  circumstances  that  had  reduced  him  to  his 
present  state.  But,  having  once  got  the  clue,  my  subse 
quent  researches  acquainted  me  with  the  main  facts  of 
the  following  narrative  ;  although,  in  writing  it  out,  my 
pen  has  perhaps  allowed  itself  a  trifle  of  romantic  and 
legendary  license,  worthier  of  a  small  poet  than  of  * 
grave  biographer. 


XXII. 

FAUNTLEROY 

F^VE-AND-TWENTY  years  ago,  at  the  epoch  of  this  stoiy 
theie  dwelt  in  one  of  the  Middle  States  a  man  whom 
we  shall  call  Fauntleroy ;  a  man  of  wealth,  and  magnif 
icent  tastes,  and  prodigal  expenditure.  His  home  might 
almost  be  styled  a  palace ;  his  habjts,  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  princely.  His  whole  being  seemed  to  have  crys 
tallized  itself  into  an  external  splendor,  wherewith  he 
glittered  in  the  eyes  o.f  the  world,  and  had  no  other  life 
than  upon  this  gaudy  surface.  He  had  married  a  lovely 
woman,  whose  nature  was  deeper  than  his  own.  But 
his  affection  for  her,  though  it  showed  largely,  was 
superficial,  like  all  his  other  manifestations  and  devel 
opments  :  he  did  not  so  truly  keep  this  noble  creature  in 
his  heart,  as  wear  her  beauty  for  the  most  brilliant  orna 
ment  of  his  outward  state.  And  there  was  born  to  him 
a  child,  a  beautiful  daughter,  whom  he  took  from  the 
beneficent  hand  of  God  with  no  just  sense  of  her  immor 
tal  value,  but  as  a  man  already  rich  in  gems  would 
receive  another  jewel.  If  he  loved  her,  it  was  because 
she  shone. 

After  Fauntleroy  had  thus  spent  a  few  empty  years, 
eorrascating  continually  an  unnatural  light,  the  source 
of  it  —  which  was  merely  his  gold  —  began  to  grow 
more  shallow,  and  finally  became  exhausted.  He  saw 
aiii  'elf  in  imminent  peril  of  losing  all  that  had  hereto 


214  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

fore  distinguished  him ;  and,  conscious  of  no  innate 
worth  to  fall  back  upon,  he  recoiled  from  this  calamity, 
with  the  instinct  of  a  soul  shrinking-  from  annihilation. 
To  avoid  it  —  wretched  man  !  — or,  rather  to  defer  it,  if 
but  for  a  month,  a  day,  or  only  to  procure  himself  the 
life  of  a  few  breaths  mors  amid  the  false  glitter  which 
was  now  less  his  own  tnan  ever, —  he  made  himself 
guilty 'of  a  crime.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  crime,  growing 
out  of  its  artificial  state,  which  society  (unless  it  shou  ]d 
change  its  entire  constitution  for  this  man's  unworthy 
sake)  neither  could  nor  ought  to  pardon.  More  safely 
might  it  pardon  murder.  Fauntleroy's  guilt  was  dis 
covered.  He  fled ;  his  wife  perished,  by  the  necessity 
of  her  innate  nobleness,  in  its  alliance  with  a  being  so 
ignoble;  and  betwixt  her  mother's -death  and  her  father's 
ignominy,  his  daughter  was  left  worse  than  orphaned. 

There  was  no  pursuit  after  Fauntleroy.  His  family 
connections,  who  had  great  wealth,  made  such  arrange 
ments  with  those  whom  he  had  attempted  to  wrong  as 
secured  him  from  the  retribution  that  would  have  over 
taken  an  unfriended  criminal.  The  wreck  of  his  estate 
was  divided  among  his  creditors.  His  name,  in  a  very 
brief  space,  was  forgotten  by  the  multitude  who  had 
passed  it  so  diligently  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Seldom, 
indeed,  was  it  recalled,  even  by  his  closest  former  inti 
mates.  Nor  could  it  have  been  otherwise.  The  man 
had  laid  no  real  touch  on  any  mortal's  heart.  Being  a 
mere  image,  an  optical  delusion,  created  by  the  sunshine 
of  prosperity,  it  was  his  law  to  vanish  into  the  shadow 
of  the  first  intervening  cloud.  He  seemed  to  leave  no 
racancy ;  a  phenomenon  which,  like  many  others  ih&l 


FAUNTLEROY.  215 

attended  nis  brief  career,  went  far  to  prove  the  illusive- 
ness  of  his  existence. 

Not,  howtver,  that  the  physical  suhstance  of  Fauntle- 
roy  had  literally  melted  into  vapor.  He  had  fled  north 
ward  to  the  New  England  metropolis,  and  had  taken 
up  his  abode,  under  another  name,  in  a  squalid  street  or 
court  of  the  older  portion  of  the  city.  There  he  dwelt 
among  poverty-stricken  wretches,  sinners,  and  'forlorn 
good  people,  Irish,  and  whomsoever  else  were  neediest. 
Many  families  were  clustered  in  each  house  together, 
above  stairs  and  below,  in  the  little  peaked  garrets,  and 
*»v*»ri  in  the  dusky  cellars.  The  house  where  Fauntle- 
roy  paid  weekly  rent  for  a  chamber  and  a  closet  had 
been  a  stately  habitation  in  its  day.  An  old  colonial 
governor  had  built  it,  and  lived  there,  long  ago,  and  held 
his  levees  in  a  great  room  where  now  slept  twenty  Irish 
bedfellows ;  and  died  in  Fauntleroy's  chamber,  which  his 
embroidered  and  white-wigged  ghost  still  haunted.  Tat 
tered  hangings,  a  marble  hearth,  traversed  with  many 
cracks  and  fissures,  a  richly-carved  oaken  mantel-piece, 
partly  hacked  away  for  kindling-stuff,  a  stuccoed  ceiling, 
defaced  with  great,  unsightly  patches  of  the  naked 
laths,  —  such  was  the  chamber's  aspect,  as  if,  with  its 
splinters  and  rags  of  dirty  splendor,  it  were  a  kind  of 
practical  gibe  at  this  poor,  ruined  man  of  show. 

At  first,  and  at  inrgular  intervals,  his  relatives 
&Ilo\ved  Fauntleroy  a  Htile  pittance  to  sustain  life  ;  not 
r'rom  any  love,  perhaps,  but  lest  -poverty  should  compel 
lim,  by  new  offences,  to  add  more  shame  to  that  with 
vhich  he  had  already  stained  them.  But  he  showed  no 
tendency  to  further  guilt.  His  character  appeared  to 
Kave  been  radically  changed  (as,  indeed,  fro'n  its  shallow 


*  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

ness,  it  well  might)  by  his  miserable  fate  ;  or,  it  may  be 
the  traits  now  seen  in  him  were  portions  of  the  sam? 
character,  presenting  itself  in  another  phase.  Instead 
of  any  longer  seeking  to  live  in  the  sight  of  the  world 
his  impulse  was  to  shrink  into  the  nearest  obscurity,  and 
to  be  unseen  of  men,  were  it  possible,  even  while  stand 
ing  before  their  eyes.  He  had  no  pride ;  it  was  all  trod 
den  in  the  dust.  No  ostentation  ;  for  how  could  it  sur 
vive,  when  there  was  nothing  left  of  Fauntleroy,  save 
penury  and  shame  !  His  very  gait  demonstrated  that 
he  would  gladly  have  faded  out  of  view,  and  have  crept 
about  invisibly,  for  the  sake  of  sheltering  himself  from 
the  irksomeness  of  a  human  glance.  Hardly,  it  was 
averred,  within  the  memory  of  those  who  knew  him 
now,  had  he  the  hardihood  to  show  his  full  front  to  the 
world.  He  skulked  in  corners,  and  crept  about  in  a 
sort  of  noon-day  twilight,  making  himself  gray  and 
misty,  at  all  hours,  with  his  morbid  intolerance  of  sun 
shine. 

In  his  torpid  despair,  however,  he  had  done  an  act 
which  that  condition  of  the  spirit  seems  to  prompt 
almost  as  often  as  prosperity  and  hope.  Fauntleroy 
was  again  married.  He  had  taken  to  wife  a  forlorn, 
.  'leek-spirited,  feeble  young  woman,  a  seamstress,  whom 
he  found  dwelling  with  her  mother  in  a  contiguous 
chamber  of  the  old  gubernatorial  residence.  This  poor 
phantom  —  as  the  beautiful  and  noble  companion  of  -bis 
former  life  had  done  —  brought  him  a  daughter.  And 
sometimes  is  from  one  dream  into  another,  Fauntleroy 
looked  forth  out  of  hia  present  grimy  environment  into 
th°t  past  magnificence,  and  wondered  whether  the 
gnndee  of  yesterday  or  the  pauper  of  to-day  were  real 


P-AUNTLEROY.  21" 

Put,  m  my  mind,  the  one  and  the  other  were  alike 
impalpable.  In  truth,  it  was  Fauntleroy's  fatality  to 
behold  whatever  he  touched  dissolve.  After  a  few 
years,  his  second  wife  (dim  shadow  that  she  had  always 
been)  faded  finally  out  of  the  world,  and  left  Fauntleroy 
to  deal  as  he  might  with  their  pale  and  nervous  child. 
And,  by  this  time,  among  his  distant  relatives  —  with 
whom  he  had  grown  a  weary  thought,  linked  with 
contagious  infamy,  and  which  they  were  only  too 
willing  to  get  rid  of —  he  was  himself  supposed  to  be  no 
more. 

The  younger  child,  like  his  elder  one,  might  be  con 
sidered  as  the  true  offspring  of  both  parents,  and  as  the 
reflection  of  their  state.  She  was  a  tremulous  little 
creature,  shrinking  involuntarily  from  all  mankind,  but 
in  timidity,  and  no  sour  repugnance.  There  was  a 
lack  of  human  substance  in  her ;  it  seemed  as  if,  were 
she  to  stand  up  in  a  sunbeam,  it  would  pass  right 
through  her  figure,  and  trace  out  the  cracked  and 
ilusty  window-panes  upon  the  naked  floor.  But,  never 
theless,  the  poor  child  had  a  heart;  and  from  her 
mother's  gentle  character  she  had  inherited  a  profound 
and  still  capacity  of  affection.  And  so  her  life  was  one 
of  love.  She  bestowed  it  partly  on  her  father,  but  in 
greater  part  on  an  idea. 

For  Fauntleroy,  as  they  sat  by  their  cheerless  fire 
side, —  which  was  no  fireside,  in  truth,  but  only  a  lusty 
stove,  —  had  often  talked  to  the  little  girl  about  his 
former  wealth,  the  noble  loveliness  of  his  first  wife,  and 
the  beautiful  child  whom  she  had  given  him.  Instead 
of  the  fairy  tales  which  other  parents  tell,  he  told  Pris« 
?illa  this  And,  out  of  the  loneliness  of  her  sad  little 


218  THE    BLITHE  DALE 


existence,  Priscilla's  love  grew,  and  tended  upwai  1,  and 
twined  itself  perseveringly  around  this  unseen  sister;  as 
a  grape-vine  might  strive  to  clamber  out  of  a  gloomy 
hollow  among  the  rocks,  and  embrace  a  young  tree 
standing  in  the  sunny  warmth  above.  It  was  almost 
like  worship,  both  in  its  earnestness  and  its  humility  , 
nor  was  it  the  less  humble,  —  though  the  more  earnest,  — 
because  Priscilla  could  claim  human  kindred  with  the 
oeing  whom  she  so  devoutly  loved.  As  with  worship,  too, 
it  gave  her  soul  the  refreshment  of  a  purer  atmosphere. 
Save  for  this  singular,  this  melancholy,  and  yet  beaut 
ful  affection,  the  child  could  hardly  have  lived  ;  or,  ha  . 
she  lived,  with  a  heart  shrunken  for  lack  of  any  senti 
merit  to  fill  it,  she  must  have  yielded  to  the  barren 
miseries  of  her  position,  and  have  grown  to  womanhood 
characterless  and  worthless.  But  now,  amid  all  the 
sombre  coarseness  of  her  father's  outward  life,  and  of  her 
own,  Priscilla  had  a  higher  and  imaginative  life  within. 
Some  faint  gleam  thereof  was  ojten  visible  upon  her 
face.  It  was  as  if,  in  her  spiritual  visits  to  her  brilliant 
sister,  a  portion  of  the  latter's  brightness  had  permeated 
our  dim  Priscilla,  and  still  lingered,  shedding  a  faint 
illumination  through  the  cheerless  chamber,  after  she 
came  back. 

As  the  child  grew  up,  so  pallid  and  so  slender,  and 
with  much  unaccountable  nervousness,  and  all  the 
weaknesses  of  neglected  infancy  still  haunting  her,  tlio 
gross  and  simple  neighbors  vi  Mspered  strange  things 
about  Priscilla.  The  big,  red,  Irish  matrons,  whose 
innumerable  progeny  swarmed  out  of  the  adjacent  doors, 
used  to  mock  at  the  pale,  western  child.  They  fancieo 
—  or,  at  least,  affirmed  it.  between  jest  and  earnest  — 


FXUNTLEROY  3 

mat  she  vvas  not  so  solid  flesh  and  blood  as  other  :nil 
dren,  hut  mixed  largely  with  a  thinner  element.  They 
called  her  ghost-child,  and  said  that  she  could  indeed 
vanish  when  she  pleased,  but  could  never,  in  hei 
densest  moments,  make  herself  quite  visible.  The  sun, 
at  mid-day,  would  shine  through  her ;  in  the  first  gray 
of  the  twilight,  she  lost  all  the  distinctness  of  her  out 
line  ;  and,  if  you  followed  the  dim  thing  into  a  dark 
corner,  behold!  she  was  not  there.  And  it  was  true 
that  P.iscilla  had  strange  ways ;  strange  ways,  and 
stranger  words,  when  she  uttered  any  words  at  all. 
Never  stirring  out  of  the  old  governor's  dusky  house,  she 
sometimes  talked  of  distant  places  and  splendid  rooms, 
as  if  she  had  just  left  them.  Hidden  things  were  visi 
ble  to  her  (at  least,  so  the  people  inferred  from  obscure 
hints  escaping  unawares  out  of  her  mouth),  and  silence 
was  audible.  And  in  all  the  world  there  was  nothing 
so  difficult  to  be  endured,  by  those  who  had  any  dark 
secret  to  conceal,  as  the  glance  of  Priscilla's  timid  and 
melancholy  eyes. 

Her  peculiarities  were  the  theme  of  continual  gossip 
among  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  gubernatorial  mansion. 
The  rumor  spread  thence  into  a  wider  circle.  Those 
who  knew  old  Moodie,  as  he  was  now  called,  used  often 
to  jeer  him,  at  the  very  street  corners,  about  his  daugh 
ter's  gift  of  second  sight  and  prophecy.  It  was  a  period 
when  science  (though  mostly  through  its  empirical  pro 
fessors)  was  bringing  forward,  anew  a  hoard '  of  facts 
and  imperfect  theories,  that  had  partially  won  credence 
in  elder  times,  but  which  modern  scepticism  had  swept 
as  rubbish.  These  things  were  now  tossed  up 
,  out  of  the  surging  ocean  of  human  thought  and 


220  THE     BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

experience.  The  story  of  Priscilla's  preternatural  man 
ifestations,  therefore,  attract ">d  a  kind  of  notice  of  which 
it  would  have  been  deemed  wholly  unworthy  a  few 
years  earlier.  One  day,  a  gentleman  ascended  the 
creaking  staircase,  and  inquired  which  was  old  Hoodie's 
chamber-door.  And,  several  times,  he  came  again.  He 
was  i  marvellously  handsome  man,  —  still  youthful,  too, 
and  fashionably  dressed.  Except  that  Priscilla,  in  those 
days,  had  no  beauty,  and,  in  the  languor  of  her  exist 
ence,  had  not  yet  blossomed  into  womanhood,  there 
would  have  been  rich  food  for  scandal  in  these  visits  ; 
for  the  girl  was  unquestionably  their  sole  object,  although 
her  father  was  supposed  always  to  be  present.  But,  it 
must  likewise  be  added,  there  was  something  about 
Priscilla  that  calumny  could  not  meddle  with;  and  thus 
far  was  she  privileged,  either  by  the  preponderance  of 
what  was  spiritual,  or  the  thin  and  watery  blood  that 
-elt  her  cheek  so  pallid. 

Yet,  if  the  busy  tongues  of  the  neighborhood  spared 
Priscilla  in  one  way,  they  made  themselves  amends  by 
renewed  and  wilder  babble  on  another  score.  They 
averred  that  the  strange  gentleman  was  a  wizard,  and 
that  he  had  taken  advantage  of  Priscilla's  lack  of 
earthly  substance  to  subject  her  to  himself,  as  his  famil 
iar  spirit,  through  whose  medium  he  gained  cognizance 
of  whatever  happened,  in  regions  near  or  remote.  The 
boundaries  of  his  power  were  denned  by  me  verge  of  the 
pit  of  Tartarus  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  third  sphere  of 
the  celestial  world  on  the  other.  Again,  they  declared 
their  suspicion  that  the  wizard,  with  all  his  show  of 
manly  beauty,  was  really  an  aged  and  wizened  figure,  01 
else  that  his  semblance  of  a  human  body  was  only  a 


FAUNTLEROY. 

aecromanti %  or  perhaps  a  mechanical  eonmvauce,  in 
which  a  demon  walked  about.  In  proof  of  it,  however, 
they  could  merely  instance  a  gold  band  around  his 
upper  teeth,  which  had  once  been  visible  to  several  old 
women,  when  he  smiled  at  them  from  the  top  of  the  gov 
ernor's  staircase.  Of  course,  this  was  all  absurdity,  OT 
mostly  so.  But,  after  every  possible  deduction,  there 
remained  certain  very  mysterious  points  about  the 
stranger's  character,  as  well  as  the  connection  that  he 
established  with  Priscilla.  Its  nature  at  that  period  was 
even  less  understood  than  now,  when  miracles  of  this 
kind  have  grown  so  absolutely  stale,  that  I  would  gladly, 
if  the  truth  allowed,  dismiss  the  whole  matter  from  my 
narrative. 

We  must  now  glance  backward,  in  quest  of  the  beau 
tiful  daughter  of  Fauntleroy's  prosperity.  What  had 
become  of  her  ?  Fauntleroy's  only  brother,  a  bachelor, 
and  with  no  other  relative  so  near,  had  adopted  the  for 
saken  child.  She  grew  up  in  affluence,  with  native 
graces  clustering  luxuriantly  about  her.  In  her  triumph 
ant  progress  towards  womanhood,  she  was  adorned  with 
every  variety  of  feminine  accomplishment.  But  she 
lacked  a  mother's  care.  With  no  adequate  control,  on 
any  hand  (for  a  man,  however  stern,  however  wise,  can 
never  sway  and  guide  a  female  child),  her  character  was 
left  to  shape  itself.  There  was  good  in  it,  and  evil.  Pas 
sionate,  self-willed  and  imperious,  she  had  a  warm  and 
generous  nature  ;  showing  the  richness  of  the  soil,  how 
ever,  chiefly  by  the  weeds  that  fiVmsheu  in  it,  and  choked 
up  the  herbs  of  grace.  In  her  girlhool  her  uncle  died, 
As  Fauntleroy  was  supposed  to  be  jkewise  dead,  and  no 
othei  heir  jras  known  to  exist,  his  wealth  devolved  cu 


222  THE    BL1THEDALE    ROMANCE. 

her,  although. ,  dying  suddenly,  the  uncle  left  no  will 
After  his  death,  there  were  obscure  passages  in  Zenobia 'a 
history.  There  were  whispers  of  an  attachment,  and 
even  a  secret  marriage,  with  a  fascinating  and  accom 
plished  but  unprincipled  young  man.  The  incidents  and 
appearances,  howevei,  which  led  to  this  surmise,  soon 
passed  away,  and  were  forgotten. 

Nor  was  her  reputation  seriously  affected  by  the  report. 
In  fact,  so  great  was  her  native  power  and  influence,  and 
such  seemed  the  careless  purity  of  her  nature,  that  what  • 
ever  Zenobia  did  was  generally  acknowledged  as  right 
for  her  to  do.  The  world  never  criticized  her  so  harshly 
as  it  does  most  women  who  transcend  its  rules.  It 
almost  yielded  its  assent,  when  it  beheld  her  stepping  out 
of  the  common  path,  and  asserting  the  more  extensive 
privileges  of  her  sex,  both  theoretically  and  by  her  prac 
tice.  The  sphere  of  ordinary  womanhood  was  felt  to 
be  narrower  than  her  development  required. 

A  portion  of  Zenobia's  more  recent  life  is  told  in  the 
foregoing  pages.  Partly  in  earnest  —  and,  I  imagine,  as 
was  her  disposition,  half  in  a  proud  jest,  or  in  a  kind  of 
recklessness  that  had  grown  upon  her,  out  of  some 
hidden  grief,  —  she  had  given  her  countenance,  and 
promised  liberal  pecuniary  aid,  to  our  experiment  of  a 
better  social  state.  And  Priscilla  followed  her  to  Blithp- 
daie.  The  sole  bliss  of  her  life  had  been  a  dream  of 
this  beautiful  sister,  who  had  never  so  much  as  known 
of  her  existence.  By  this  time,  too,  the  poor  girl  was 
enthralled  in  an  intolerable  bondage,  from  which  she 
must  either  free  herself  or  perish.  She  deemed  herself 
safest  near  Zenobia.  intc  whose  large  heart  she  hoped  tc 
nestle. 


FAUNTLEROY.  223 

One  evqning,  months  after  Priscilla's  departure,  when 
Mocdie  (or  shall  we  call  him  Fauntleroy?)  \\as  sitting 
alon"  in  the  state-chamber  of  the  old  governor,  there 
came  lootsteps  up  the  staircase.  There  was  a  pause  on 
the  landing-place.  A  lady's  musical  yet  haughty  ac 
cents  were  heard  making  an  inquiry  from  some  denizen 
of  the  house,  who  had  thrust  a  head  out  of  a  contiguous 
chamber.  There  was  then  a  kncx-k  at  Moodie's  door 

"  Come  in !  "  said  he. 

And  Zenobia  entered.  The  details  of  the  interview 
that  followed  being  unknown  to  me,  —  while,  notwith 
standing,  it  would  be  a  pity  quite  to  lose  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  situation,  —  I  shall  attempt  to  sketch  it. 
mainly  from  fancy,  although  with  some  general  grounds 
of  surmise  in  regard  to  the  old  man's  feelings. 

She  gazed  wonderingly  at  the  dismal  chamber.  Dis- ' 
mal  to  her,  who  beheld  it  only  for  an  instant ;  and  how 
much  more  .0  to  him,  into  whose  brain  each  bare  spot 
on  the  ceiling,  every  tatter  of  the  paper-hangings,  and 
all  the  splintered  carvings  of  the  mantel-piece,  seen 
wearily  -through  long  years,  had  worn  their  several 
prints  !  Inexpressibly  miserable  is  this  familiarity  with 
objects  that  have  been  from  the  first  disgustful. 

"  I  have  received  a  strange  message,"  said  Zenobia, 
after  a  moment's  silence, "  requesting,  or  rather  enjoining 
it  upon  me,  to  come  hither.  Rather  from  curiosity  than 
any  other  motive,  —  and  because,  though  a  woman,  I 
Lave  not  all  the  timidity  of  one,  —  I  have  complied 
Can  it  be  you,  sir,  who  thus  summoned  me  ? " 

"  It  was,"  answered  Moodie. 

"And  what  was  your  purpose?"  she  continued 
"You  require  charily,  perhaps?  In  that  case,  the  me* 


224  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

sage  might  have  been  more  fitly  worded.  B.ut  you  are 
old  and  poor,  and  age  and  poverty  shou7i  be  allowed 
their  privileges.  Tell  me,  thtrefore,  10  what  extent  you 
need  my  aid." 

"  Put  up  your  purse,"  said  the  supposed  mendicant, 
with  an  inexplicable  smile.  "  Keep  it,  —  keep  all  youi 
wealth,  —  until  I  demand  it  all,  or  none  !  My  message 
had  no  such  end  in  view.  You  are  beautiful,  they  tell 
me ;  and  I  desired  to  look  at  you." 

He  took  the  one  lamp  that  showed  the  discomfort  and 
sordidness  of  his  abode,  and  approaching  Zenobia,  held 
it  *ip,  so  as  to  gain  the  more  perfect  view  of  her,  from 
top  to  toe.  So  obscure  was  the  chamber,  that  you 
could  see  the  reflection  of  her  diamonds  thrown  upo^ 
the  dingy  wall,  and  flickering  with  the  ri.«^  and  fall  of 
Zenobia's  breath.  It  was  the  splendor  of  those  jewels 
on  her  neck,  like  lamps  that  bum  before  some  fair  tem 
ple,  and  the  jewelled  Slower  in  her  hair,  more  than  the 
murky,  yellow  light,  that  helped  him  to  see  her  beauty 
But  he  beheld  it,  and  grew  proud  at  heart ;  his  own 
figure,  in  spite  of  his  mean  habiliments,  assumed  an  air 
of  state  and  grandeur. 

"  It  is  well,"  cried  old  Moodie.  "  Keep  your  wraith 
You  are  right  worthy  of  it.  Keep  it,  therefore  but 
with  one  condition  only." 

Zenobia  thought  the  old  man  beside  himself,  ano  was 
moved  with  pity. 

"  Have  you  none  to  care  for  you  ? "  asked  she.  "  No 
daughter  ?  —  no  kind-hearted  neighbor  ?  —  no  meai^j  oi 
procuring  the  attendance  which  you  need  ?  Tell  rue 
rwice  again,  can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ?  " 

'  Nothing,"   he    replied.      "  I   have    beheld   what 


FAUNTLEROY.  -J25 

wished.  Now  lea  re  me.  Linger  not  a  moment  longer. 
or  I  may  be  tempted  to  say  what  would  bring  a  cloud 
over  that  queenly  bi)w.  Keep  all  your  wealth,  but  with 
only  this  one  condition :  Be  kind  —  be  no  less  kind 
than  »isters  are  —  to  my  poor  Priscilla  !  " 

And,  it  may  be,  after  Zenobia  withdrew,  Fauntlesw 
paced  his  gloomy  chamber,  and  communed  with  himself 
as  follows ;  —  or,  at  all  events,  it  is  the  only  solution 
which  I  can  offer  of  the  enigma  presented  in  his  char 
acter  : 

"I  am  unchanged,  —  the  same  man  as  of  yore!' 
said  he.  "  True,  my  brother's  wealth  —  he  dying  intes 
tate  —  is  legally  my  own.  I  know  it ;  yet,  of  my  own 
choice,  I  live  a  beggar,  and  go  meanly  clad,  and  hide 
myself  behind  a  forgotten  ignominy.  Looks  this  like 
ostentation  ?  Ah  !  but  in  Zenobia  I  live  again  !  Be 
holding  her,  so  beautiful,  —  so  fit  to  be  adorned  with  all 
imaginable  splendor  of  outward  state,  —  the  cursed 
vanity,  which,  half  a  lifetime  since,  dropt  off  like  tatters 
of  once  gaudy  apparel  from  my  debased  and  ruined  per 
son,  is  all  renewed  for  her  sake.  Were  I  to  reilppear, 
my  shame  would  go  with  me  from  darkness  into  day- 
i'ght.  Zenobia  has  the  splendor,  and  not  the  shame. 
Let  the  world  admire  her,  and  be  dazzled  by  her,  the 
brilliant  child  of  my  prosperity !  It  is  Fauntleroy  thai 
still  shines  through  her  !  " 

But  then,  perhaps,  another  thought  occurred  to  him. 

"  My  poor  Priscilla !  And  am  I  just  to  her,  in  sur 
rendering  all  to  this  beautiful  Zenobia  ?  Priscilla !  I 
.ove  her  best,  —  I  love  her  only  !  —  but  with  shame,  no: 
pride.  So  Urn,  so  pallid,  so  shrinking, —  the  daughtei 
of  my  long  calamity !  Wealth  were  but  a  mockery  in 
15 


226  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

Priscilla's  hands.  What  is  its  use,  except  to  fling  a 
golden  raiiapce  arcund  those  who  grasp  it?  Yet  let 
Zenobia  take  heed !  Priscilla  shall  have  no  wrong  '  " 

But,  while  the  man  of  show  thus  meditated,  —  that 
very  evening,  so  far  as  I  can  adjust  the  dates  of  these 
strange  incidents,  —  Priscilla  —  poor,  pallid  flowe"!  — 
was  either  snatched  from  Zenobia's  hand,  or  fliin^  wil« 
tully  away ' 


XXIII 

A  VILLAGE-HALL. 

I  betook  myself  away,  and  wanderec  up  and 
down,  like  ar.  exorcised  spirit  that  had  been  driven  from 
its  old  haunts  after  a  mighty  struggle.  It  takes  down 
the  solitary  pride  of  man,  beyond  most  other  things,  to 
find  the  impracticability  of  flinging  aside  affections  that 
have  grown  irksome.  The  bands  that  were  silken  once 
are  apt  to  become  iron  fetters  when  we  desire  to  shake 
them  off.  Our  souls,  after  all,  are  not  our  own.  We 
convey  a  property  in  them  to  those  with  whom  we 
associate ;  but  to  what  extent  can  never  be  known,  until 
we  feel  the  tug,  the  agony,  of  our  abortive  effort  to 
resume  an  exclusive  sway  over  ourselves.  Thus,  in  all 
the  weeks  of  my  absence,  my  thoughts  continually 
reverted  back,  brooding  over  the  by-gone  months,  and 
bringing  up  incidents  that  seemed  hardly  to  have  left  a 
trace  of  themselves  in  their  passage.  I  spent  painful 
hours  in  recalling  these  trifles,  and  rendering  them  more 
misty  and  unsubstantial  than  at  first  by  the  quantity  of 
speculative  musing  thus  kneaded  in  with  them.  Rollings- 
worth,  Zenobia,  Priscilla !  These  three  had  absorbed 
my  life  into  themselves.  Together  with  an  inexpressible 
longing  to  know  their  fortunes,  there  was  likewise  a 
morbid  resentment  of  my  own  pain,  and  a  stubborn 
reluctance  to  come  again  witnin  their  sphere. 

All  that  I  learned  of  thern^  therefore,  was  comprised 


228  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

in  n  few  brief  and  pungent  squibs,  such  as  the  newp- 
papers  were  then  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  0,1  ou> 
socialist  enterprise.  There  was  one  paragraph,  which 
if  I  rightly  guessed  its  purport,  bore  reference  to  Zenobia, 
but  was  too  darkly  hinted  to  convey  even  thus  much  of 
certainty.  Rollings  worth,  too,  with  his  philanthropic 
project,  afforded  the  penny-a-liners  a  theme  for  some 
savage  and  bloody-minded  jokes ;  and,  considerably  to 
my  surprise,  they  affected  me  with  as  much  indignatior 
os  if  we  had  still  been  friends. 

Thus  passed  sever?!  weeks ;  time  long  enough  for  my 
brown  and  toil-hardened  hands  to  reaccustom  themselves 
to  gloves.  Old  habits,  such  as  were  merely  external, 
returned  upon  me  with  wonderful  promptitude.  My 
superficial  talk,  too,  assumed  altogether  a  worldly  tone. 
Meeting  former  acquaintances,  who  showed  themselves 
inclined  to  ridicule  my  heroic  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
human  welfare,  I  spoke  of  the  recent  phase  of  my  life  as 
.ndeed  fair  matter  for  a  jest.  But  I  also  gave  them  to 
understand  that  it  was,  at  most,  only  an  experiment,  on 
which  I  had  staked  no  valuable  amount  of  hope  or  fear. 
It  had  enabled  me  to  pass  the  summer  in  a  novel  and 
agreeable  way,  had  afforded  me  some  grotesque  speci 
mens  of  artificial  simplicity,  and  could  not,  therefore,  so 
far  as  I  was  concerned,  be  reckoned  a  failure.  In  n<? 
one  instance,  however,  did  I  voluntarily  speak  of  m;y 
three  friends.  They  dwelt  in  a  profounder  region.  The 
more  I  consider  myself  as  I  then  was,  the  more  do  j 
recognize  how  deeply  my  connection  with  those  three 
had  affected  all  my  being. 

As  it  was  already  the  epoch  of  annihilated  *pace,  * 
might,  in  the  time  I  was  away  from  Blithed:  ^  hav* 


A    VILLAGE -HALL.  229 

snatched  a  glimpse  at  England,  and  been  back  again. 
But  my  wanderings  were  confined  within  a  very  limited 
sphere.  I  hopped  and  fluttered,  like  a  bird  with  a  string 
about  its  leg,  gyrating  round  a  small  circumference,  and 
keeping  up  a  restless  activity  to  no  purpose.  Thus  it 
vvas  still  in  our  familiar  Massachusetts,  —  in  one  of  its 
white  country-villages,  —  that  I  must  next  particularize 
an  incident 

The  scene  was  one  01  those  lyceum-hal  s,  of  which 
almost  every  village  has  now  its  own,  dedicated  to  that 
sober  and  pallid,  or  rather  drab-colored,  mode  of  winte> 
evening  entertainment,  the  lecture.  Of  late  years,  this 
has  come  strangely  into  vogue,  when  the  natural  tend 
ency  of  things  would  seem  to  be  to  substitute  lettered 
for  oral  methods  of  addressing  the  public.  But,  in  halls 
like  this,  besides  the  winter  course  of  lectures,  there  is  a 
rich  and  varied  series  of  other  exhibitions.  Hither 
comes  the  ventriloquist,  with  all  his  mysterious  tongues  ; 
the  thaumaturgist,  too,  with  his  miraculous  transforma 
tions  of  plates,  doves,  and  rings,  his  pancakes  smoking 
in  your  hat,  and  his  cellar  of  choice  liquors  represented 
in  one  small  bottle.  Here,  also,  the  itinerant  professor 
instructs  separate  classes  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
physiology,  and  demonstrates  his  lessons  by  the  aid 
of  real  skeletons,  and  mannikins  in  wax,  from  Pans. 
Here  is  to  be  heard  the  cnoir  of  Ethiopian  melodists, 
and  to  be  seen  the  diorama  of  Moscow  or  Bunker  Hill, 
or  the  moving  panorama  of  t'ne  Chinese  wall.  Here  is 
displayed  the  museum  ot  wax  figures,  illustrating  the 
wide  Catholicism  of  earthly  renown,  by  mixing  up  heroes 
and  statesmen,  the  pope  and  the  Mormon  prophet,  kings 
queens,  nmrdci-ers,  and  beautiful  ladies ;  every  sc  rt  of  pet 


230  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

son,  in  sh.)rt,  except  authors,  of  whom  I  never  beheld 
even  the  most  famous  done  in  wax.  And  here,  in  this 
many-purposed  hall  (unless  the  selectmen  of  the  village 
chance  to  have  more  than  their  share  of  the  Puritani&ro 
which,  however  diversified  with  later  patchwork,  still 
gives  its  prevailing  tint  to  New  England  character),  here 
the  company  of  strolling  players  sets  up  its  little  stage, 
and  claims  patronage  for  the  legitimate  drama. 

But,  on  the  autumnal  evening  which  I  speak  of,  a 
number  of  printed  handbills  —  stuck  up  in  the  bar-room, 
arid  on  the  sign-post  of  the  hotel,  and  on  the  meeting 
house  porch,  and  distributed  largely  through  the  vil 
lage  —  had  promised  the  inhabitants  ah  interview  with 
that  celebrated  and  hitherto  inexplicable  phenomenon, 
the  Veiled  Lady ! 

The  hall  was  fitted  up  with  an  amphitheatrical  descent 
of  seats  towards  a  platform,  on  which  stood  a  desk,  two 
lights,  a  stool,  and  a  capacious  antique  chair.  The  au 
dience  was  of  a  generally  decent  and  respectable  character: 
old  farmers,  in  their  Sunday  black  coats,  with  shrewd 
hard,  sun-dried  faces,  and  a  cynical  humor,  oftener  than 
any  other  expression,  in  their  eyes  ;  pretty  girls,  in  many- 
colored  attire  ;  pretty  young  men,  —  the  schoolmaster, 
•the  lawyer  or  student  at  law,  the  shopkeeper,  —  all 
Booking  rather  suburban  than  rural.  In  these  days, 
.-here  is  absolutely  no  rusticity,  except  when  the  actual 
labor  of  the  soil  leaves  its  earth-mould  on  the  person. 
There  was  likewise  a  considerable  proportion  of  young 
and  middle-aged  women,  many  of  them  stern  in  feature 
with  marked  foreheads,  and  a  very  definite  line  of  eye 
brow  ;  a  tyfe  of  womanhood  in  which  a  bold  intellectua 
developmt  nt  seems  to  be  keeping  pace  with  the  progress- 


A  VILLAGE -II ALL.  2*J) 

ive  dc  icacy  of  the  physical  constitution.  Of  all  these 
^ople  I  took  note,  at  first,  according  to  my  custom. 
But  I  ceased  to  do  so  the  moment  that  my  eyes  fell  on  an 
individual  who  sat  two  or  three  seats  below  me,  immov 
able,  apparently  deep  in  thought,  with  his  back,  of  course, 
towards  me,  and  his  face  turned  steadfastly  upon  the 
platform. 

After  sitting  a  whi!s  in  contemplation  of  this  person's 
familiar  contour,  1  was  irresistibly  moved  to  step  over 
the  intervening  benches,  lay  my  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
put  my  mouth  close  to  his  ear,  and  address  him  in  a 
sepulchral,  melo-dramatic  whisper : 

"  Hollingsworth  !  where  have  you  left  Zenobia  ?  " 

His  nerves,  however,  were  proof  against  my  attack. 
He  turned  hall  around,  and  looked  me  in  the  face  with 
great,  sad  eyes,  in  which  there  was  neither  kindness  nor 
resentment,  nor  any  perceptible  surprise. 

"  Zenobia,  when  I  last  saw  her,"  he  answered,  "  was 
at  Blithedale." 

He  said  no  more.  But  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk- 
going  on  near  me,  among  a  knot  of  people  who  might 
be  considered  as  representing  the  mysticism,  or  rather 
the  mystic  sensuality,  of  this  singular  age.  The  nature 
of  the  exhibition  that  was  about  to  take  place  had  prob 
ably  given  the  turn  to  their  conversation. 

I  heard,  from  a  pale  man  in  blue  spectacles,  some 
stranger  stories  than  ever  were  written  in  a  romance  ; 
told,  too,  with  a  simple,  unimaginative  steadfastness,  which 
was  terribly  efficacious  in  ?ompelling  the  auditor  to  re 
ceive  them  into  the  category  of  established  facts.  He  cited 
mstanoes  of  the  miraculous  power  of  one  human  beiuy 
the  will  and  passions  of  another;  insomuch  that 


2.32  THE    BL1THEDALE    ROMANoE. 

settled  grief  was  but  a  shadow  beneath  the  influence  of 
a  man  possessing  this  potency,  and  the  strong  love  of 
years  melted  away  like  a  vapor.  At  the  bidding  of  one 
of  these  wizards,  the  maiden,  with  her  lover's  kiss  still 
Durning  on  her  lips,  would  turn  from  him  with  icy  indif 
ference  ;  the  newly-made  widow  would  dig  up  her  buried 
heart  out  of  her  young  husband's  grave  before  the  sods 
had  taken  root  upon  it ;  a  mother,  with  her  babe's  milk  in 
her  bosom,  would  thrust  away  her  child.  Human  char 
acter  was  but  soft  w  -x  in  his  hands  ;  and  guilt,  or  virtue, 
only  the  forms  inte  *vhich  he  should  see  fit  to  mould  it. 
The  religious  sei  jment  was  a  flame  which  he  could 
blow  up  with  his  breath,  or  a  spark  that  he  could  utterly 
extinguish.  It  is  unutterable,  the  horror  and  disgust 
with  which  1  listened,  and  saw  that,  if  these  things  were 
to  be  believed,  the  individual  soul  was  virtually  annihi 
lated,  and  all  that  is  sweet  and  pure  in  our  present  life 
debased,  and  that  the  idea  of  man's  eternal  responsibility 
was  made  ridiculous,  and  immortality  rendered  at  once 
impossible,  and  not  worth  acceptance.  But  I  would 
have  perished  on  the  spot,  sooner  than  believe  it. 

The  epoch  of  rapping  spirits,  and  all  the  wonders  that 
have  followed  in  their  train,  —  such  as  tables  upset  by 
invisible  agencies,  bells  self-tolled  at  funerals,  and  ghostly 
rr.usic  performed  on  jewsharps,  —  had  not  yet  arrived. 
Alas  ii v  countrymen,  methinks  we  have  fallen  on  an 
p.yil  ags  If  these  phenomena  have  not  humbug  at  the 
oot torn,  so  much  the  worse  for  us.  What  can  they  in 
dicate,  in  a  spiritual  way,  except  that  the  soul  of  man  is 
descending  to  a  lower  point  than  it  has  ever  before 
eached  •  while  incarnate  ?  We  are  pursuing  a  down 
4Tard  course  in  the  eternal  inarch,  and  thus  briny  uin 


A  VILLAGE-HALL.  2.TJ 

celves  into  the  same  range  with  beings  wi:;m  death,  in 
r»»quital  of  vneir  gross  and  evil  lives,  has  degraded  below 
humanity!  To  hold  intercourse  with  spirits  of  thi? 
order,  we  must  stoop  and  grovel  in  some  element  more 
vile  than  earthly  dust.  These  goblins,  if  they  exist  at 
all,  are  but  the  shadows  of  past  mortality,  outcasts,  mere 
refuse-stuff,  adjudged  unworthy  of  the  eternal  world, 
and,  on  the  most  favorable  supposition,  dwindling  grad 
ually  into  nothingness.  The  less  we  have  to  say  to 
them  the  better,  lest  we  share  their  fate ! 

The  audienc'e  now  began  to  be  impatient ;  they  signi 
fied  their  desire  for  the  entertainment  to  commence  by 
thump  of  sticks  and  stamp  of  boot-heels.  Nor  was  it  a 
great  while  longer  before,  in  response  to  their  call,  there 
appeared  a  b<  irded  personage  in  oriental  robes,  looking 
like  one  of  the  enchanters  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  He 
came  upon  the  platform  from  a  side-door,  saluted  the 
spectators,  not  with  a  salaam,  but  a  bow,  took. his  station 
at  the  desk,  and  first  blowing  his  nose  with  a  white  hand 
kerchief,  prepared  to  speak.  The  environment  of  the 
homely  village-hall,  and  the  absence  of  many  ingenious 
contrivances  of  stage-effect  with  which  the  exhibition 
had  heretofore  been  set  off,  seemed  to  bring  the  artifice 
of  this  character  more  openly  upon  the  surface.  No 
sooner  did  I  behold  the  bearded  enchanter,  than,  laying 
my  hand  again  on  Hollingsworth's  shoulder,  I  whispered 
in  his  ear, 

"  Do  you  know  him  ? " 

"  1  never  saw  the  man  before,"  he  muttered,  without 
turning  his  head. 

But  I  had  seen  him  three  times  a1  ready.  Once.  OB 
occasion  of  my  first  visit  to  the  Veiled  Lady ;  a  .second 


2,'J4  THE     BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

time,  in  the  -wood-path  at  Blithedale;  and  lastly,  it* 
Zenobia's  drawing-room.  It  was  Westervelt.  A  quick 
association  of  ideas  made  me  shudder  from  heai  to  foot  * 
nrd  again,  like  an  evil  spirit,  bringing  up  reminiscences 
of  a  man's  sins,  I  whispered  a  question  in  Hollings- 
wo  th's  ear,  — 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Priscilla  ?  " 

H  >  gave  a  convulsive  start,  as  if  I  had  thrust  a  knife 
into  him,  writhed  himself  round  on  his  seat,  glared 
fiercel  •  into  my  eyes,  but  answered  not  a  word. 

The  Professor  began  his  discourse,  explanatory  of  the 
psychological  phenomena,  as  he  termed  them,  which  it 
was  his  purpose  to  exhibit  to  the  spectators.  There 
remains  r  o  very  distinct  impression  of  it  on  my  mem 
ory.  It  was  eloquent,  ingenious,  plausible,  with  a  delu 
sive  show  c l  spirituality,  yet  really  imbued  throughout 
with  a  cold  t\rd  dead  materialism.  I  shivered,  as  at  a 
current  of  chii11  air  issuing  out  of  a  sepulchral  vault,  and 
bringing  the  STiell  of  corruption  along  with  it.  He 
spoke  of  a  new  cm  that  was  dawning  upon  the  world ; 
an  era  that  would  Tmk  soul  to  soul,  and  the  present  life 
to  what  we  call  futurity,  with  a  closeness  that  should 
finally  convert  both  \vorlds  into  one  great,  mutually  con 
scious  brotherhood.  Eh  described  (in  a  strange,  philo 
sophical  guise,  with  tei  rs  of  art,  as  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  chemical  discovery)  th  ^  agency  by  which  this  mighty 
result  was  to  be  effected  ;  no"  would  it  have  surprised  me, 
had  he  pretended  to  hold  up  a  portion  of  his  universally 
pervasive  fluid,  as  he  affirmed  it  to  be,  in  a  glass  phial. 

At  the  close  of  his  exordiurr  the  ProTossor  beckoned 
with  his  hand,  —  once,  twice,  thrive,  —  and  a  figure 
came  gliding  upon  the  platform,  en VT 1 01.  d  in  i  lung  veil 
*>f  pilverv  whiteness.  It  ftll  about  her  like  the  tuMi.-«- 


A    VILLAGE-HALL.  236 

ol  a  summer  cloud,  with  a  kind  of  vagueness,  so  that 
the  outline  of  the  form  beneath  it  could  not  be  accurately 
discerned.  But  the  movement  of  the  Veiled  Lady  was 
graceful,  free  and  unembarrassed,  like  that  of  a  person 
accustomed  to  be  the  spectacle  of  thousands  ;  or,  possi 
bly,  a  blindfold  prisoner  within  the  sphere  with  which 
this  dark  earthly  magician  had  surrounded  her,  she  was 
wholly  unconscious  of  being  the  central  object  to  all 
those  straining  eyes. 

Pliant  to  his  gesture  (which  had  even  an  obsequious 
courtesy,  but  at  the  same  time  a  remarkable  decisive 
ness),  the  figure  placed  itself  in  the  great  chair.  Sitting 
there,  in  such  visible  obscurity,  it  was  perhaps  as  mu^h 
like  the  actual  presence  of  a  disembodied  spirit  as  any 
thing  that  stage  trickery  could  devise.  The  hushed 
breathing  of  the  spectators  proved  how  high-wrought 
were  their  anticipations  of  the  wonders  to  be  performed 
through  the  medium  of  this  incomprehensible  creature. 
I,  too,  was  in  breathless  suspense,  but  with  a  far  dif 
ferent  presentiment  of  some  strange  event  at  hand. 

"  You  see  before  you  the  Veiled  Lady,"  said  the 
bearded  Professor,  advancing  to  the  verge  of  the  plat 
form.  "  By  the  agency  of  which  I  have  just  spoken,  she 
is  at  this  moment  in  communion  with  the  spiritual 
world.  That  silvery  veil  is,  in  one  sense,  an  enchant 
ment,  having  been  dipped,  as  it  were,  and  essentially 
imbued,  through  the  potency  of  my  art,  with  the  fluid 
medium  of  spirits.  Slight  and  ethereal  as  it  seems,  the 
limitations  of  time  and  space  have  no  existence  within 
its  folds.  This  hall  —  these  hundreds  of  faces,  encom 
passing  her  within  so  narrow  an  amphitheatre  —are  of 
thinner  substance,  in  her  view,  than  the  airiest  vrapor 
Jiat  the  r.louds  are  made  of.  She  oeholds  the  Absolut? ' ' 


236  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

As  preliminary  to  other  and  far  more  wonderful  psy 
ihological  experiments,  the  exhibiter  suggested  that  soim 
of  his  auditors  should  endeavor  to  make  the  Veiled  Lady 
sensible  of  their  presence  by  such  methods  —  prov'ded 
only  no  touch  were  laid  upon  her  person  —  as  they 
might  deem  best  adapted  to  that  *end.  Accordingly, 
several  deep-lunged  country-fellows,  who  looked  as  if 
they  might  have  blown  the  apparition  away  with  a  breath 
ascended  the  platform.  Mutually  encouraging  one 
another,  they  shouted  so  close  to  her  ear  that  the  veil 
stirred  like  a  wreath  of  vanishing  mist ;  they  smote 
upon  the  floor  with  bludgeons ;  they  perpetrated  so 
hideous  a  clamor,  that  methought  it  might  have  reached, 
at  least,  a  little  way  into  the  eternal  sphere.  Finally, 
with  the  assent  of  the  Professor,  they  laid  hold  of  the 
great  chair,  and  were  startled,  apparently,  to  find  it  soar 
upward,  as  if  lighter  than  the  air  through  which  it  rose. 
But  the  Veiled  Lady  remained  seated  and  motionless, 
with  a  composure  that  was  hardly  less  than  awful, 
because  implying  so  immeasurable  a  distance  betwixt  her 
and  these  rude  persecutors. 

"  These  efforts  are  wholly  without  avail,"  observed  the 
Professor,  who  had  been  looking  on  with  an  aspect  of 
serene  indifference.  "  The  roar  of  a  battery  of  cannon 
would  be  inaudible  to  the  Veiled  Lady.  And  yet,  were 
I  to  will  it,  sitting  in  this  very  hall,  she  could  hear  the 
desert  wind  sweeping  over  the  sands  as  far  off  as  Arabia  ; 
the  icebergs  grinding  one  against  the  other  in  the  polar 
seas  ;  the  rustle  of  a  leaf  in  an  East  Indian  forest ;  the 
lowest  whispered  breath  of  the  bashfulest  maiden  in  the 
world,  uttering  the  first  confession  of  her  love.  Nor  does 
there  exist  the  moral  inducement,  apart  from  my 


A    VILLAGE-HALL.  231 

behest,  the  t  could  persuade  her  to  lift  the  silvery  veil,  c" 
arise  out  of  that  chair." 

Greatly  to  the  Professor's  discomposure,  however,  just 
as  he  spoke  these  words,  the  Veiled  Lady  arose.  There 
was  a  mysterious  tremor  that  shook  the  magic  veil.  The 
spectators,  it  may  be,  imagined  that  she  was  about  to 
take  flight  into  that  invisible  sphere,  and  to  the  society 
of  those  purely  spiritual  beings  with  whom  they  reck 
oned  her  so  near  akin.  Rollings  worth,  a  moment  ago; 
had  mounted  the  platform,  and  now  stood  gazing  at  the 
figure,  with  a  sad  intentness  that  brought  the  whole 
power  of  his  great,  stern,  yet  tender  soul  into  his  glance. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  waving  his  hand  towards  her.  "  You 
are  safe  !  " 

She  threw  off  the  veil,  and  stood  before  that  multitude 
of  people  pale,  tremulous,  shrinking,  as  if  only  then  had 
,she  discovered  that  a  thousand  eyes  were  gazing  at  hei. 
Poor  maiden  !  How  strangely  had  she  been  betrayed  ' 
Blazoned  abroad  as  a  wonder  of  the  world,  and  perform 
ing  what  were  adjudged  as  miracles,  —  in  the  faith  ol 
many,  a  seeress  and  a  prophetess  ;  in  the  haisher  judg 
ment  of  others,  a  mountebank,  —  she  had  kept,  as  1 
religiously  believe,  her  virgm  reserve  and  sanctity  of 
soul  throughout  it  all.  Within  that  encircling  veil 
though  an  evil  hand  had  flung  it  over  her,  there  was  as 
deep  a  seclusion  as  if  this  forsaken  girl  had,  all  the 
while,  been  sitting  under  the  shadow  of  Eliot's  pulpit, 
in  the  Blithedale  woods,  at  the  feet  of  him  who  now 
summoned  her  to  the  shelter  of  his  arms.  And  the  true 
heart-throb  of  a  woman's  affection  was  too  powerful  for 
-In  jugglery  that  had  hitherto  environed  her.  She 
uttered  a  shriek,  and  fled  to  Hollingsworth  like  one 
escaping  from  her  deadliest  enemy,  and  was  safe 


XXIV. 

THE    MASQUERADERS. 

Two  nights  had  passed  since  the  foregoing  occur 
Fences,  when,  in  a  breezy  September  forenoon,  I  set  forth 
from  town,  on  foot,  towards  Blithedale. 

It  was  the  most  delightful  of  all  days  for  a  walk,  with 
a  dash  of  invigorating  ice-temper  in  the  air,  but  a  cool 
ness  that  soon  gave  place  to  the  brisk  glow  of  exercise, 
while  the  vigor  remained  as  elastic  as  before.  The 
atmosphere  had  a  spirit  and  sparkle  in  it.  Each  breath 
was  like  a  sip  of  ethereal  wine,  tempered,  as  I  said,  with 
a  crystal  lump  of  ice.  I  had  started  on  this  expedition 
in  an  exceedingly  sombre  mood,  as  well  befitted  one  who 
found  himself  tending  towards  home,  but  was  conscious 
that  nobody  would  be  quite  overjoyed  to  greet  him 
there.  My  feet  were  hardly  off  the  pavement,  however, 
when  this  morbid  sensation  began  to  yield  to  the  lively 
influences  of  air  and  motion.  Nor  had  I  gone  far,  with 
fields  yet  green  on  either  side,  before  my  step  became 
us  swift  and  light  as  if  Hollingsworth  were  waiting 
to  exchange  a  friendly  hand-grip,  and  Zenobia's  and 
Priscilla's  open  arms  would  welcome  the  wanderer's  re 
appearance.  It  has  happened  to  me,  on  other  occasions, 
as  well  as  this,  to  prove  how  a  state  of  physical  well- 
being  can  create  a  kind  of  joy,  in  spite  of  the  profoundesf 
anxiety  of  mind. 

The  pathway  of  that  walk  still  runs  along,  with  sunn; 


THE    MASQUERADERS.  239 

freshness  through  my  memory.  I  know  not  why  it 
should  l»e  so.  But  my  mental  eye  can  even  now  dis 
cern  the  September  grass,  bordering  the  pleasant  road 
side  with  a  brighter  verdure  than  while  the  summer 
heats  were  scorching  it;  the  trees,  too,  mostly  green, 
although  here  and  there  a  branch  or  shrub  has  donned 
its  vesture  of  crimson  and  gold  a  week  or  two  before  its 
fellows.  I  see  the  tufted  barberry-bushes,  with  their 
small  clusters  of  scarlet  fruit ;  the  toadstools,  likewise,  — 
some  spotlessly  white,  others  yellow  or  red, —  mysterious 
growths,  springing  suddenly  from  no  root  or  seed,  and 
growing  nobody  can  tell  how  or  wherefore.  In  this  re 
spect  they  resembled  many  of  the  emotions  in  my  breast. 
And  I  still  see  the  little  rivulets,  chill,  clear  and  bright, 
that  murmured  beneath  the  road,  through  subterranean 
rocks,  and  deepened  into  mossy  pools,  where  tiny  fish 
were  darting  to  and  fro,  and  within  which  lurked  the 
hermit-frog.  But  no,  —  I  never  can  account  for  it, 
that,  with  a  yearning  interest  to  learn  the  upshot  of  all 
my  story,  and  returning  to  Blithedale  for  that  sole  pur 
pose,  I  should  examine  these  things  so  like  a  peaceful- 
bosomed  naturalist.  Nor  why,  amid  all  my  sympathies 
and  fears,  there  shot,  at  times,  a  wild  exhilaration 
through  my  frame. 

Thus  I  pursued  my  way  along  the  line  of  the  ancient 
stone  wall  that  Paul  Dudley  built,  and  through  \vhi*e 
villages,  and  past  orchards  of  ruddy  apples,  and  fields  of 
ripening  maize,  and  patches  of  woodland,  and  all  such 
sweet  rural  scenery  as  looks  the  fairest,  a  little  beyond 
«the  suburbs  of  a  town.  Hollingsworth,  Zenobia,  Pris- 
cilia  !  They  glided  mistily  before  me,  as  I  walked. 
Sometimes,  in  my  solitude,  I  laughed  with  the  bitterness 


tMO  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

of  self -scorn,  remembering1  how  unreservedly  I  had  given 
up  my  heart  and  soul  to  interests  that  were  not  mine 
What  had  I  ever  had  to  do  with  them?  And  why 
being  now  free,  should  I  take  this  thraldom  on  me  once 
again  ?  It  was  both  sad  and  dangerous,  1  whispered  to 
myself,  to  be  in  too  close  affinity  with  the  passions,  the 
errors  and  the  misfortunes,  of  individuals  who  stood 
within  a  circle  of  their  own,  into  which,  if  I  stept  at  all, 
it  must  be  as  an  intruder,  and  at  a  peril  that  I  could  not 
estimate. 

Drawing  nearer  to  Blithedale,  a  sickness  of  the  spirits 
kept  alternating  with  my  flights  of  causeless  buoyancy. 
I  indulged  in  a  hundred  odd  and  extravagant  conjectures. 
Either  there  was  no  such  place  as  Blithedale,  nor  ever 
had  been,  nor  any  brotherhood  of  thoughtful  laborers 
like  what  I  seemed  to  recollect  there,  or  else  it  was  all 
changed  during  my  absence.  It  had  been  nothing  but 
dream-work  and  enchantment.  I  should  seek  in  vain 
for  the  old  farm-house,  and  for  the  green-sward,  the 
potato-fields,  the  root-crops,  and  acres  of  Indian  corn, 
and  for  all  that  configuration  of  the  land  which  1  had 
imagined.  It  would  be  another  spot,  and  an  utter 
strangeness. 

These  vagaries  were  of  the  spectral  throng  so  apt  to 
steal  out  of  an  unquiet  heart.  They  partly  ceased  to 
haunt  me,  on  my  arriving  at  a  point  whence,  through 
the  trees,  I  began  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  Blithedale 
farm.  That  surely  was  something  real.  There  was 
hardly  a  square  foot  of  all  those  acres  on  which  I  hao 
not  trodden  heavily,  in  one  or  another  kind  of  toil.  The* 
curse  of  Adam's  posterity  —  and,  curse  or  blessing  be  it 
l*  gives  substance  to  the  life  around  us  —  had  first  come 


THE    MASQUERADEHS.  241 

upon  me  there.  ID  the  sweat  of  my  brow  I  had  there 
earned  bread  and  eaten  it,  and  so  established  my  claim 
to  be  on  earth,  and  my  fellowship  with  all  the  sons  of 
labor.  I  could  have  knelt  down,  and  have  laid  my 
breast  against  that  soil.  The  red  clay  of  which  my 
frame  was  moulded  seemed  nearer  akin  to  those  crum 
bling  furrows  than  to  any  other  portion  of  the  world's 
dust.  There  was  my  home,  and  there  might  be  mt 
grave. 

I  felt  an  invincible  reluctance,  nevertheless,  at  the 
idea  of  presenting  myself  before  my  old  associates,  with 
out  first  ascertaining  the  state  in  which  they  were.  A 
nameless  foreboding  weighed  upon  me.  Perhaps,  should 
1  know  all  the  circumstances  that  had  occurred,  I  might 
find  it  my  wisest  course  to  turn  back,  unrecognized,  un- 
s^en,  and  never  look  at  Blithedale  more.  Had  it-  been 
evening,  1  would  have  stolen  softly  to  some  lighted  win 
dow  of  the  old  farm-house,  and  peeped  darkling  in,  to  see 
all  their  well-known  faces  round  the  supper-board.  Then, 
were  there  a  vacant  seat,  I  might  noiselessly  unclose  the 
door,  glide  in,  and  take  my  place  among  them,  without 
a  word.  My  entrance  might  be  so  quiet,  my  aspect  so 
familiar,  that  they  would  forget  how  long  I  had  been 
away,  and  suffer  me  to  melt  into  the  scene,  as  a  wreath 
of  vapor  melts  into  a  larger  cloud.  I  dreaded  a  bois 
terous  greeting.  Beholding  me  at  table,  Zenobia,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  would  send  me  a  cup  of  tea,  and  Hol- 
lingsworth  fill  my  plate  from  the  great  dish  of  pan 
dowdy,  and  Priscilla,  in  her  quiet  way,  would  hand  the 
cream,  and  others  help  me  to  the  bread  and  butter.  Be- 
inar  one  of  them  again,  the  knowledge  of  what  had  hap- 
pencl  would  come  to  me  without  a  shock,  For  stil'>  at 
16 


242  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

every  turn  of  my  shifting  fantasies,  the  thought 

me  in  the  face  that  some  evil  thing  had  befallen  us,  o* 

was  ready  to  befall. 

Yielding  to  this  ominous  impression,  I  now  turned 
aside  into  the  woods,  resolving  to  spy  out  the  posture  of 
"lie  Community,  as  craftily  as  the  wild  Indian  before  he 
onakes  his  onset.  I  would  go  wandering  about  the  out- 
spirts  of  the  farm,  and,  perhaps,  catching  sight  cf  a  soli 
tary  acquaintance,  would  approach  him  amid  the  brown 
shadows  of  the  trees  (a  kind  of  medium  fit  for  spirit? 
departed  and  revisitant,  like  myself),  and  entreat  him  tc 
teL  me  how  all  things  were. 

The  first  living  creature  that  I  met  was  a  partridge 
which  sprung  up  beneath  my  feet,  and  whirred  away ; 
the  next  was  a  squirrel,  who  chattered  angrily  at  me 
from  an  overhanging  bough.  I  trod  along  by  the  dark, 
sluggish  river,  and  remember  pausing  on  the  bank,  above 
one  of  its  blackest  and  most  placid  pools  —  (the  very  spot, 
with  the  barkless  stump  of  a  tree  aslantwise  over  the 
water,  is  depicting  itself  to  my  fancy  at  this  instant), — 
and  wondering  how  deep  it  was,  and  if  any  over-laden 
soul  had  ever  flung  its  weight  of  mortality  in  thither, 
and  if  it  thu=  escaped  the  burthen,  or  only  made  it 
heavier.  And  perhaps  the  skeleton  of  the  diowned 
wretch  still  lay  beneath  the  inscrutable  depth,  clinging 
to  some  sunken  log  at  the  bottom  with  the  gripe  of  its 
oli  despair.  So  snght,  however,  was  the  track  of  these 
gloomy  ideas,  that  I  soon  forgot  them  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  a  brood  of  wild  ducks,  which  were  floating  on 
the  river,  and  anon  took  flight,  leaving  each  a  bright 
streak  over  the  black  surface.  By  and  by,  I  came  to  my 
hermitage,  in  the  h^art  of  the  white-pine  tree  and  clai* 


THE    MJ.SQUEIUJJERS  243 


bcring  up  into  it,  sat  <Jown  to  rest.  The  grapes  which  1 
had  watched  throughout  the  summer,  now  dangled  around 
me  in  abundant  clusters  of  the  deepest  purple,  deliciously 
sweet  to  the  taste,  and,  though  wild,  yet  free  from  that 
ungontle  flavor  which  distinguishes  nearly  all  our  native 
and  uncultivated  grapes.  Methought  a  wine  might  be 
pressed  out  of  them  possessing  a  passionate  zest,  and 
endowed  with  a  new  kind  of  intoxicating  quality,  at 
tended  with  such  bacchanalian  ecstacies  as  the  tamer 
grapes  of  Madeira,  France,  and  the  Rhine,  are  inade 
quate  to  produce.  And  I  longed  to  quaff  a  great  goblet 
of  it  at  that  moment  ! 

\^  hile  devouring  the  grapes,  I  looked  on  all  sides  out 
of  the  peep-holes  of  my  hermitage,  and  saw  the  farm 
house,  the  fields,  and  almost  every  part  of  our  domain, 
but  not  a  single  human  figure  in  the  landscape.  Some 
of  the  windows  of  the  house  were  open,  but  with  no 
more  signs  of  life  than  in  a  dead  man's  unshut  eyes. 
The  barn-door  wras  ajar,  and  swinging  in  the  breeze. 
The  big  old  dog,  —  he  was  a  relic  of  the  former  dynasty 
of  the  farm,  —  that  hardly  ever  stirred  out  of  the  yard, 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  What,  then,  had  become  of 
all  tne  fraternity  and  sisterhood  ?  Curious  to  ascertain 
this  point,  I  let  myself  down  out  of  the  tree,  and  going 
to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  was  glad  to  perceive  our  herd 
of  cows  c.he\ving  the  cud  or  grazing  not  far  off.  I  fan 
cied,  by  their  manner,  that  two  or  three  of  them  recog 
nized  me  (as,  indeed,  they  ought,  for  I  had  milked  them 
and  been  their  chamberlain  times  without  number)  ;  but, 
after  staring  me  in  the  face  a  little  while,  they  phleg- 
matically  began  grazing  and  chewing  their  cuds  again. 
Then  1  grew  foolishly  angry  at  so  cold  a  recepti  m,  and 


'244  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

flung   some   rotten  fragments  of  an  old   stump  at  th«se 
unsentimental  cows. 

Skirting  further  round  the  pasture,  I  heard  voices  and 
much  laughter  proceeding1  from  the  interior  of  the  wood 
Voices,  male  and  feminine ;  laughter,  not  only  of  fresh 
young  throats,  but  the  bass  of  grown  people,  as  if  solemn 
organ-pipes  should  pour  out  airs  of  merriment.  Not  a 
voice  spoke,  but  I  knew  it  better  than  my  own ;  not  a 
latTgh,  but  its  cadences  were  familiar.  The  wood,  in 
this  portion  of  it,  seemed  as  full  of  jollity  as  if  Comus 
and  his  crew  were  holding  their  revels  in  one  of  its  usu 
ally  lonesome  glades.  Stealing  onward  as  far  as  I  durst, 
without  hazard  of  discovery,  I  saw  a  concourse  of  strange 
figures  beneath  the  overshadowing  branches.  They  ap 
peared,  and  vanished,  and  came  again,  confusedly,  with 
the  streaks  of  sunlight  glimmering  down  upon  them. 

Among  them  was  an  Indian  chief,  with  blanket,  feath 
ers  and  war-paint,  and  uplifted  tomahawk ;  and  near 
him,  looking  fit  to  be  his  woodland-bride,  the  goddess 
Diana,  with  the  crescent  on  her  head,  and  attended  by 
our  big  lazy  dog,  in  lack  of  any  fleeter  hound.  Draw 
ing  an  arrow  from  her  quiver,  she  let  it  fly  at  a  venture, 
and  hit  the  very  tree  behind  which  I  happened  to  be  lurk- 
ing.  Another  group  consisted  of  a  Bavarian  broom-girl, 
a  negro  of  the  Jim  Crow  order,  one  or  two  foresters  of 
the  middle  ages,  a  Kentucky  woodsman  in  his  trimmed 
hun.  ing-shirt  and  deerskin  leggings,  and  a  Shaker  elder, 
quaint  demure,  broad-brimmed,  and  square-skirted. 
Shepherds  of  Arcadia,  and  allegoric  figures  from  the 
Faerie  Queen,  were  oddly  mixed  up  with  these.  Arm 
in  arm,  or  otherwise  huddled  together  in  strange  dis- 
c/?pancy,  stood  grim  Puritans,  gay  Cavalier?,  and  Rev> 


-HE    MASQT7ERADERS.  245 

lutioiiary  officers  with  three-cornered  cockud  fiats,  and 
queue's  longer  than  their  swords.  A  bright -complex- 
irmed.  dark-haired,  vivacious  little  gypsy,  'ivith  a  red 
slnuv/  :  ver  her  head,  went  from  one  group  to  another 
telling  fortunes  by  palmistry;  and  Moll  Pitcher,  the 
renowned  old  witch  of  Lynn,  broomstick  in  hand,  showed 
herself  prominently  in  the  midst,  as  if  announcing  all 
these  apparitions  to  be  the  offspring  of  her  necromantic 
art,  But  Silas  Foster,  who  leaned  against  a  tree  neai 
by,  in  his  customary  blue  frock,  and  smoking  a  short 
pipe,  did  more  to  disenchant  the  scene,  with  his  look  of 
shrewd,  acrid,  Yankee  observation,  than  twenty  witches 
and  necromancers  could  have  done  in  the  way  of  ren 
dering  it  weird  and  fantastic. 

A  little  further  off,  some  old-fashioned  skinkers  and 
drawers,  all  with  portentously  red  noses,  were  spread 
ing  a  banquet  on  the  leaf-strewn  earth ;  while  a  horned 
and  long-tailed  gentleman  (in  whom  I  recognized  the 
fiendish  musician  erst  seen  by  Tarn  O'Shanter)  tuned 
his  fiddle,  and  summoned  the  whole  motley  rout  to  a 
dance,  before  partaking  of  the  festal  cheer.  So  they 
joined  hands  in  a  circle,  whirling  round  so  swiftly,  so 
madly,  and  so  merrily,  in  time  and  tune  with  the  Sa 
tanic  music,  that  their  separate  incongruities  were 
olended  all  together,  and  they  became  a  kind  of  en 
tanglement  that  went  nigh  to  turn  one's  brain  with 
merely  looking  at  it.  Anon  they  stopt  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  staring  at  one  another's  figures,  set  up  a  roar  of 
laughter;  whereat  a  shower  of  the  September  leaves 
(which,  all  day  long,  had  been  hesitating  whether  to  fall 
or  no)  were  shaken  off  by  the  movement  of  the  air,  ind 
tame  eddying  down  upon  the  revellers 


246  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

Then,  for  lack  of  breath,  ensued  a  silence,  tit  the 
deepest  point  of  which,  tickled  by  the  oddity  of  surprising 
my  grave  i>  rsociates  in  this  masquerading  tnm,  I  could 
not  possibly  refrain  from  a  burst  of  laughter  on  my  own 
separate  account 

"  Hush  ! "  I  heard  the  pretty  gypsy  fortune-teller  say 
"  Who  is  that  laughing  ?  ' 

"  Some  profane  intruder ! "  said  the  goddess  Diana. 
"I  shall  send  an  arrow  through  his. heart,  or  change  him 
into  a  stag,  as  I  did  Actseon,  .f  he  peeps  from  behind  the 
trees  ! " 

"  Me  take  his  scalp  ! "  cried  the  Indian  chief,  brandish 
ing  his  tomahawk,  and  cutting  a  great  caper  in  the  air. 

"  I  'ii  root  him  in  the  earth  with  a  spell  that  I  haw 
at  my  tongue's  end ! "  squeaked  Moll  Pitcher.  "And  the 
green  moss  si  ill  grow  all  over  him,  before  he  gets  free 
again  ! " 

"  The  void,  was  Miles  Coverdale's,"  said  the  fiendish 
fiddler,  with  a  whisk  of  his  tail  and  a  toss  of  his  horns. 
"  My  music  has  brought  him  hither.  He  is  always 
ready  to  dance  to  the  devil's  tune  ! " 

Thus  put  on  the  right  track,  they  all  recognized  the 
voice  at  once,  and  set  up  a  simultaneous  shout. 

'  Miles  !  Miles  !  Miles  Coverdale,  where  are  you  ?" 
they  :ried.  "  Zenobia  !  Queen  Zenobia  !  here  is  one  of 
your  vassals  lurking  in  the  wood.  Command  him  to 
approach,  and  pay  his  duty  ! " 

The  whole  fantastic  rabble  forthwith  streamed  orT  in 
pursuit  of  me,  so  that  I  was  like  a  mad  poet  hunted  by 
chimeras.  Having  fairly  the  start  of  them,  however,  1 
succeeded  in  making  my  escape,  and  soon  left  theii 
merriment  and  riot  at  a  good  distance  in  the  rrar.  its 


THE    MASQUERADERS.  24*1 

fauitei  tones  assumed  a  kind  of  mournfulness,  and  w  ?re 
finally  lost  in  the  hush  and  solemnity  of  the  wood.  In 
my  haste,  I  stumbled  over  a  heap  of  logs  and  sticks  thai 
had  been  cut  for  fire-wood,  a  great  while  ago,  by  some 
former  possessor  of  the  soil,  and  piled  up  square,  in 
order  to  be  carted  or  sledded  away  to  the  farm-house. 
But,  being  forgotten,  they  had  lain  there  perhaps  fifty 
years,  and  possibly  much  longer ;  until,  by  the  accumu 
lation  of  moss,  and  the  leaves  falling  over  them  and 
decaying  there,  from  autumn  to  autumn,  a  green  mound 
was  formed,  in  which  the  softened  outline  of  the  wood 
pile  was  sull  perceptible.  In  the  fitful  mood  that  then 
swayed  my  mind,  I  found  something  strangely  affecting 
in  this  simple  circumstance.  I  imagined  the  long-dead 
woodman,  and  his  long-dead  wife  and  children,  coming 
out  of  their  chill  graves,  and  essaying  to  make  a  fire  with 
this  heap  of  mossy  fuel ! 

From  this  spot  I  strayed  onward,  quite  lost  in  reverie, 
and  neither  knew  nor  cared  whither  I  was  going,  until 
a  low,  soft,  well-remembered  voice  spoke,  at  a  little 
distance. 
,    "  There  is  Mr.  Coverdale  ! " 

"  Miles  Coverdale  ! "  said  another  voice,  —  and  its 
tones  were  very  stern.  "  Let  him  come  forward,  then ! " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Coverdale,"  cried  a  woman's  voice,  —  clear 
and  melodious,  but,  just  then,  with  something  unnatural 
in  its  chord,  —  "  you  are  welcome  !  But  you  come  half 
an  hour  too  late,  and  have  missed  a  scene  which  you 
would  have  enjoyed  ! " 

I  looked  up,  and  found  myself  nigh  Eliot's  pulpit,  at 
the  base  of  which  sat  Hollingsworth,  with  Prscilla  at 
his  feet,  and  Zenobia  standing  before  them, 


XXV. 

THE  THREE  TOGETHER 

HOLUNGSWORTH  was  m  his  ordinary  working-dress 
Pnscilla  wore  a  pretty  and  simple  gown,  with  a  kerchief 
about  her  neck,  and  a  calash,  which  she  had  flung  bach 
from  her  head,  leaving  it  suspended  by  the  strings. 
But  Zenobia  (whose  part  among  the  maskers,  as  may 
be  supposed,  was  no  inferior  one)  appeared  in  a  costume 
of  fanciful  magnificence,  with  her  jewelled  flower  as  the 
central  ornament  of  what  resembled  a  leafy  crown,  01 
coronet.  She  represented  the  oriental  princess  by 
whose  name  we  were  accustomed  to  know  her.  Her 
attitude  was  free  and  noble ;  yet,  if  a  queen's,  it  was  not 
that  of  a  queen  triumphant,  but  dethroned,  on  trial  for 
her  life,  or,  perchance,  condemned,  already.  The  spirit 
of  the  conflict  seemed,  nevertheless,  to  be  alive  in  her. 
Her  eyes  were  on  fire ;  her  cheeks  had  each  a  crimson 
spot,  so  exceedingly  vivid,  and  marked  with  so  definite 
an  outline,  that  I  at  first  doubted  whether  it  were  not 
artificial.  In  a  very  brief  space,  however,  this  idea  was 
shamed  by  the  paleness  that  ensued,  as  the  blood  sunk 
suddenly  away.  Zenobia  now  looked  like  marble. 

One  always  feels  the  fact,  in  an  instant,  when  he  has 
intruded  on  those  who  love,  or  those  who  hate,  at  some 
acme  of  their  passion  that  puts  them  into  a  sphere  of 
their  own,  where  no  other  spirit  can  pretend  to  stand  on 
equal  ground  with  them.  I  was  confused,  —  affected 


THE    THREE    TOGETHER.  249 

with  a  species  of  terror, — and  wished  myself  away 
The  intentness  of  their  feelings  gave  them  the  exclusive 
property  of  the  soil  and  atmosphere,  and  left  me  no  right 
to  be  or  breathe  there. 

"  Hollingsworth, —  Zenobia, — I  have  just  returned 
to  Blithedale,"  said  I,  "  and  had  no  thought  of  finding 
you  here.  We  shall  meet  again  a1  the  house  I  wil1 
retire." 

"  This  place  is  free  to  you,"  answered  Hollingsworth. 

"As  free  as  to  ourselves,"  added  Zenobia.  "This 
long  while  past,  you  have  been  following  up  your  game, 
groping  for  human  emotions  in  the  dark  corners  of  the 
heart.  Had  you  been  here  a  little  sooner,  you  might 
have  seen  them  dragged  into  the  daylight.  I  could 
even  wish  to  have  my  trial  over  again,  with  you  stand- 
'  \g  by  to  see  fair  play  !  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Coverdale, 
A  have  been  on  trial  for  my  life  ?" 

She  laughed,  while  speaking  thus.  But,  in  truth,  as 
my  eyes  wandered  from  one  of  the  group  to  another,  I 
saw  in  Hollingsworth  all  that  an  artist  could  desire  for 
the  grim  portrait  of  a  Puritan  magistrate  holding  inquest 
of  life  and  death  in  a  case  of  witchcraft ;  —  in  Zenobia, 
the  sorceress  herself,  not  aged,  wrinkled  and  decrepit,  but 
fair  enough  to  tempt  Satan  with  a  force  reciprocal  to  his 
own  ;  —  and,  in  Priscilla,  the  pale  victim,  whose  seal 
and  body  had  been  wasted  by  her  spells.  Had  a  pile 
of  fagots  been  heaped  against  the  rock,  this  hint  of 
impending  doom  would  have^  completed  the  suggestive 
picture. 

"  It  was  too  hard  upon  me,"  continued  Zenobia,  ad 
dressing  Hollingsworth,  "  th  it  judge  jury  and  accuser 
sfo  uld  all  Ire  comprehended  in  one  man  '  I  demur,  f 


&50  THE    BLITHEDALE   ROMANCE. 

I  thivi1*  the  lawyers  say,  to  the  jurisdiction.  But  let  the 
learned  Judge  Coverdale  seat  himself  on  the  top  of  the 
rock,  and  you  and  me  stand  at  its  base,  side  by  side 
pleading'  our  cause  before  him  !  There  might,  it  least, 
be  two  criminals,  instead  of  one." 

"  You  forced  this  on  me,"  replied  Hollingsworth 
looking  her  sternly  in  the  face.  "  Did  I  call  you  hither 
from  among  the  masqueraders  yonder  ?  Do  I  assume  to 
oe  your  judge?  No;  except  so  far  as  I  have  an  unques 
tionable  right  of  judgment,  in  order  to  settle  my  own 
line  of  behavior  towards  those  with  whom  the  events  of 
life  bring  me  in  contact.  True,  I  have  already  judged 
you,  but  not  on  the  world's  part,  —  neither  do  I  pretend 
to  pass  a  sentence  ! " 

"  Ah,  this  is  very  good  !"  said  Zenobia,  with  a  smile. 
"  What  strange  beings  you  men  are,  Mr.  Coverdale  !  — 
is  it  not  so  ?  It  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  with 
you  to  bring  a  woman  before  your  secret  tribunals,  and 
judge  and  condemn  her  unheard,  and  then  tell  her  to 
go  free  without  a  sentence.  The  misfortune  is,  that  this 
same  secret  tribunal  chances  to  be  the  only  judgment- 
seat  that  a  true  woman  stands  in  awe  of,  and  that 
any  verdict  short  of  acquittal  is  equivalent  to  a  death- 
sentence  ! " 

The  more  I  looked  at  them,  and  the  more  I  heard,  the 
stronger  grew  my  impression  that  a  crisis  had  just  come 
and  gone.  On  Hollingsworth'*  brow  it  had  left  a  stamp 
.ike  that  of  irrevocable  doojn,  of  which  his  own  will  was 
the  instrument.  In  Zenobia 's  whole  person,  beholding 
her  more  closely,  I  saw  a  riotous  agitation ;  the  almost 
delirious  disquietude  of  a  great  struggle,  at  the  cl<se  jf 
which  the  vanqi  ished  one  felt  her  strength  and  courage 


THE   THREE    TOGETHER.  25\ 

Ptil.  mighty  within  her,  and  longed  to  renew  the  contest 
My  sensations  were  as  if  I  had  come  upon  a  battle-field 
before  the  smoke  was  as  yet  cleared  away . 

And  what  subjects  had  been  discussed  here  ?  All,  no 
doubt,  that  for  so  many  months  past  had  kept  my  heart 
and  my  imagination  idly  feverish.  Zenobia's.  whole 
character  and  history;  the  true  nature  of  her  mys 
terious  connection  with  Westervelt ;  her  later  purposes 
towards  Holljngs\rorth,  and,  reciprocally,  his  in  r^fer- 
ence  to  her ;  and,  finally,  the  degree  in  which  Zenobia 
had  been  cognizant  of  the  plot  against  Priscilla,  and 
what,  at  last,  had  been  the  real  object  of  that  scheme. 
On  these  points,  as  before,  I  was  left  to  my  own  conjec 
tures.  One  thing,  only,  was  certain.  Zenobia  and  Hoi 
lingsworth  were  friends  no  longer.  If  their  heart-stringa 
were  ever  intertwined,  the  knot  had  been  adjudged  an 
entanglement,  and  was  now  violently  broken. 

But  Zenobia  seemed  unable  to  rest  content  with  the 
.natter  in  the  .posture  which  it  had  assumed. 

"  Ah  !  do  we  part  so  ?  "  exclaimed  she,  seeing  Hoi 
lingsworth  about  to  retire. 

"  And  why  not  ? "  said  he,  with  almost  rude  abrupt 
ness.  "  What  is  there  further  to  be  said  between  Uc'  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  nothing,"  answered  Zenobia,  looking 
him  in  the  face,  and  smiling.  "  But  we  have  come, 
many  times  before,  to  this  gray  rock,  and  we  have  talked 
very  softly  among  the  whisperings  of  the  birch-trees. 
They  were  pleasant  hours !  I  love  to  make  the  latest 
of  them,  though  not  altogether  so  delightful,  loiter  away 
as  slowly  as  may  be.  And,  besides,  you  have  put  many 
queries  to  me  at  this,  which  you  design  to  be  our  last. 
interview;  and  being  driven,  as  I  must  acknowledge, 


252  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

into  a  corner,  I  have  responded  with  reasonable  frank 
ness.  But,  now,  with  your  free  consent,  I  desire  the 
privilege  of  asking  a  few  questions,  in  my  turn." 

"  I  have  no  concealments,"  said  Hollingsworth. 

"  We  shall  see,"  answered  Zenobia.  "  I  would  first 
inquire  whether  you  have  supposed  me  to  be  wealthy2" 

"On  that  point,"  observed  Hollingsworth,  "I  have 
had  the  opinion  which  the  world  holds." 

"  And  I  held  it,  likewise,"  said  Zenobia.  "  Had  1 
not,  Heaven  is  my  witness,  the  knowledge  should  have 
been  as  free  to  you  as  me.  It  is  only  three  days  since  j 
knew  the  strange  fact  that  threatens  to  make  me  poor ; 
and  your  own  acquaintance  with  it,  I  suspect,  is  of  at 
least  as  old  a  date.  I  fancied  myself  affluent.  You  are 
aware,  too,  of  the  disposition  which  I  purposed  making 
of  the  larger  portion  of  my  imaginary  opulence  ;  —  nay, 
were  it  all,  I  had  not  hesitated.  Let  me  ask  you,  fur 
ther,  did  1  ever  propose  or  intimate  any  terms  of  com 
pact,  on  which  depended  this  —  as  the  world  would  con- 
Bider  it  —  so  important  sacrifice  ?  " 

"  You  certainly  spoke  of  none,"  said  Hollingsworth. 

"  Nor  meant  any,"  she  responded.  "  I  was  willing  to 
realize  your  dream,  freely,  —  generously,  as  some  might 
think,  —  but,  at  all  events,  fully,  and  heedless  though  it 
should  prove  the  ruin  of  my  fortune.  If,  in  your  own 
thoughts,  you  have  imposed  any  conditions  of  this  ex 
penditure,  it  is  you  that  must  be  held  responsible  fo 
whatever  is  sordid  and  unworthy  in  them.  And  now 
one  other  question.  Do  you  love  this  girl  ? " 

"O,  Zenobia!"  exclaimed   Priscilla,  shrinking  back 
us  if  longing  for  the  rock  to  topple  over  and  hide  her 

"  Do  you  love  her  ? "  repeated  Zenobia 


THE    TTTIEE    TOGETHER.  25d 

•'  Had  you  asked  mu  chat  question  a  short  timo  since," 
•eplied  Hollingsworth,  after  a  pause,  during  which,  it 
«seemed  to  me,  even  the  birch-trees  held  their  whispering 
ornath,  "  I  should  have  told  you  —  '  No  ! '  My  feelings 
Tor  Priscilla  differed  little  from  those  of  an  elder  I  rother, 
matching  tenderly  over  the  gentle  sister  whom  G  d  hag 
given  him  to  protect." 

"  And  what  is  your  answer  now  ? "  persisted  Zenobia. 

"  I  do  love  her ! "  said  Hollingsworth,  uttering  the 
wordt  with  a  deep  inward  breath,  instead  of  speaking 
them  outright.  "As  well  declare  it  thus  as  in  any 
other  way.  I  do  love  her  !  " 

"Now,  God  be  judge  between  us,"  cried  Zenobia 
breaking  into  sudden  passion,  "  which  of  us  two  has  mos-, 
mortally  offended  him !  At  least,  I  am  a  woman,  with 
every  mult,  it  may  be,  that  a  woman  ever  had,  —  weak 
vain,  unprincipled  (like  most  of  my  sex ;  for  our  virtues, 
when  we  have  any,  are  merely  impulsive  and  intuitive) 
passionate,  too,  and  pursuing  my  foolish  and  unattain 
able  ends  by  indirect  and  cunning,  though  absurdly 
chosen  means,  as  an  hereditary  bond-slave  must;  false, 
moreover,  to  the  whole  circle  of  good,  in  my  reckless 
truth  to  the  little  good  I  saw  before  me,  —  but  still  a 
woman !  A  creature  whom  only  a  little  change  of 
earthly  fortune,  a  little  kinder  smile  of  Him  who  sent 
me  hither,  and  one  true  heart  to  encourage  and  direct 
me,  might  have  made  all  that  a  woman  can  be  !  But 
how  is  it  with  you?  Are  you  a  man?  No,  but  a 
monster!  A  cold,  heartless,  self-beginning  and  self- 
ending  piece  of  mechanism  '  " 

"  With  what,  then,  do  you  charge  me  ?  "  asked  Hoi 
Bngsworth,  aghnst  and  greatly  disturbed  by  thi?  attack 


254  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

k<  Show  me  one  selfish  end,  in  all  I  ever  aimed  at,  and 
you  may  cut  it  out  of  my  bosom  with  a  knife ! " 

*  It  is  all  self!"  answered  Zenobia,  with  still  intense* 
bitterness.  "  Nothing  else  ;  nothing  but  self,  self,  self ! 
The  fiend,  1  loubt  not,  has  made  his  choicest  mirth  of 
you,  these  seven  years  past,  and  especially  in  the  mad 
summer  which  we  have  spent  together.  I  see  it  now ' 
I  am  awake,  disenchanted,  disenthralled !  Self,  self, 
"self!  You  have  embodied  yourself  in  a  project.  Yo'i 
are  a  better  masquerader  than  the  witches  and  gypsies 
yonder ;  for  your  disguise  is  a  self-deception.  Sec 
whither  it  has  brought  you  !  First,  you  aimed  a  death 
blow,  and  a  treacherous  one,  at  this  scheme  of  a  purer 
and  higher  life,  which  so  many  noble  spirits  had  wrought 
out.  Then,  because  Coverdale  could  not  be  quite  your 
slave,  you  threw  him  ruthlessly  away.  And  you  took 
me,  too,  into  your  plan,  as  long  as  there  was  hope  of  my 
being  available,  and  now  fling  me  aside  again,  a  broken 
tool !  But,  foremost  and  blackest  of  your  sins,  you 
stifled  down  your  inmost  consciousness!  —  you  did  \i 
deadly  wrong  to  your  own  heart !  —  you  were  ready  to 
sacrifice  this  girl,  whom,  if  God  ever  visibly  showed  a 
purpose,  he  put  into  your  charge,  and  through  whom  he 
was  striving  to  redeem  you  !  " 

"  This  is  a  woman's  view,"  said  Hollingsworth,  grow 
ing  deadly  palti,  —  "a  woman's,  whose  whole  sphere  of 
action  is  in  the  heart,  and  who  can  conceive  of  no  higher 
nor  wider  one  !  " 

"  Be  silent !  "  cried  Zenobif  imperiously.  "  You 
mi  nv  neither  man  nor  woman  !  The  utmost  that  ran 
be  said  in  your  behalf,  —  and  because  I  would  not  be 
wholly  lesprable  in  my  own  eyes,  but  would  fa  D 


THE    THREE    TOGETHER.  25B 

my  wasted  feelings,  nor  own  it  wholly  a  delu 
sion,  therefore  I  say  it,  —  is,  that  a  great  and  rich  heart 
has  been  ruined  in  your  breast.  Leave  me,  now.  You 
have  done  with  me,  and  I  with  you.  Farewell !  " 

"PrisciUa,"  said  Hollingsworth,  "come." 

Zenobia  smiled;  possibly  I  did  so  too.  Not  often; 
in  human  life,  has  a  gnawing  sense  of  injury  found 
a  sweeter  morsel  of  revenge  than  was  conveyed  in 
the  tone  with  wh:ch-  Hollingsworth  spoke  those  two 
words.  It  was  the  abased  and  tremulous  tone  of  a  man 
whose  faith  in  himself  was  shaken,  and  who  sought,  at 
last,  to  lean  on  an  affection.  Yes;  the  strong  man 
bowed  himself,  and  rested  on  this  poor  Priscilla  !  O  ! 
could  she  have  failed  him,  »vhat  a  triumph  for  the 
lookers-on  ! 

And,  at  first,  1  half  imagined  that  she  was  about  to 
fail  him.  She  rose  up,  stood  shivering  like  the  birch- 
leaves  that  trembled  over  her  head,  and  then  slowly 
tottered,  rather  than  walked,  towards  Zenobia.  Arrivine 
at  her  feet,  she  sark  down  there,  in  the  very  same  atti 
tude  which  she  had  assumed  on  their  first  meeting,  in 
the  kitchen  of  the  old  farm-house.  Zenobia  remem 
bered  it. 

"  Ah,  Priscilla  !  "  said  she,  shaking  her  head,  "  how 
much  is  changed  since  then  !  You  kneel  to  a  dethroned 
princess  You,  the  victorious  one !  But  he  is  waitincf 
for  you.  Say  what  you  wish,  and  leave  me." 

"  We  are  sisters !  "  gasped  Priscilla. 

I  fancied  that  I  understood  the  word  and  action.  It 
*\eant  tne  offering  of  herself,  and  all  she  had,  to  be  ai 
Zenobia's  disposal.  But  the  latter  woild  not  take  it 
thus 


THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

"  True,  we  are  sisters  !"  she  replied  ;  and,  moved  1 1 
the  sweet  word,  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  Priscilia 
but  not  lovingly,  for  a  sense  of  fatal  harm  received 
through  her  seemed  to  be  lurking  in  Zenobia's  he-irt. 
"  We  had  one  father  !  You  knew  it  from  the  first  ;  I, 
hut  a  little  while  —  else  some  things  that  have  cho  iced 
might  have  been  spared  you.  But  I  never  wished  you 
harm.  You  stood  between  me  and  an  end  which  1 
desired.  I  wanted  a  clear  path.  No  matter  what  1 
meant.  It  is  over  now.  Do  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  O,  Zenobia,"  sobbed  Priscilla,  "  it  is  I  that  feel  like 
the  guilty  one  ! " 

"  No,  no,  poor  little  thing ! "  said  Zenobia,  with  a  sort 
of  contempt.  "  You  have  been  my  evil  fate  ;  but  there 
never  was  a  babe  with  less  strength  or  will  to  do  an 
injury.  Poor  child  !  Methinks  you  have  but  a  melan 
choly  lot  before  you,  sitting  all  alone  in  that  wide, 
cheerless  heart,  where,  for  aught  jseu  know, —  and  as  I, 
alas!  believe, —  the  fire  which  you  have  kindled  may 
soon  go  out.  Ah,  the  thought  makes  me  shiver  for  you  ! 
What  will  you  do,  Priscilla,  when  you  find  no  spark 
among  the  ashes?" 

"  Die  ! "  she  answered. 

"  That  was  well  said ! "  responded  Zenobia,  with  an 
approving  smile.  "  There  is  all  a  woman  in  your  little 
compass,  my  poor  sister.  Meanwhile,  go  ,vith  him,  and 
liye  ! " 

She  waved  her  away,  with  a  queenl/  gesture,  and 
turned  her  own  face  to  the  rock.  I  watched  Priscilla, 
wondering  what  judgment  she  would  pass  between 
Xenoltia  and  Hollingsvvorth ;  how  interpret  his  behavior. 
BO  as  to  reconcile  it  with  true  t'aitli  both  towards  Uei 


THE    THREE    TOGETHER  251 

sister  anil  herself;  how  compel  her  love  tor  him  to  keep 
any  terms  wh  itever  with  her  sisterly  affection  !  But,  in 
truth,  theie  was  no  sucn  difficulty  as  I  imagined.  Her 
engrossing  love  made  it  ill  r]<?nr.  Hollingsworth  could 
ha^e  no  fault.  That  was  the  one  principle  at  the  centre 
{  the  universe.  And  the  doubtful  guilt  or  possible 
integrity  of  other  people,  appearances,  self-evident  faots 
the  testimony  of  her  own  senses,  —  even  Hollingsworth':? 
self-accusation,  had  he  volunteered  it,  —  would  have 
weighed  not  the  value  of  a  mote  of  thistle-down  on  the 
other  side.  So  secure  was  she  of  his  right,  that  sht 
never  thought  of  comparing  it  with  another's  wrong,  but 
left  the  latter  to  itself. 

Hollingsworth  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  soon  dis 
appeared  with  her  among  the  trees.  1  cannot  imagine 
how  Zenobia  knew  when  they  were  out  of  sight ;  she 
never  glanced  again  towards  them.  But,  retaining  a 
proud  attitude  so  long  as  they  might  have  thrown  back 
a  retiring  look,  they  were  no  sooner  departed,  —  utterly 
departed,  —  than  she  began  slowly  to  sink  down.  It  was 
fts  if  a  great,  invisible,  irresistible  weight  were  pressing 
her  to  the  earth.  Settling  upon  her  knees,  she  leaned 
her  forehead  against  the  rock,  and  sobbed  convulsively ; 
dry  sobs  they  seemed  to  be,  such  as  have  nothing  to  dc 
tears. 

17 


XXVI. 

ZENOBIA  AND  COVERDALE. 

ZENOBIA  had  entirely  forgotten  me.  She  fancied 
herself  alone  with  her  great  grief.  And  had  it  been 
only  a  common  pity  that  I  felt  for  her,  —  the  pity  that. 
her  proud  nature  would  have  repelled,  as  the  one  worsl 
wrong  which  the  world  yet  held  in  reserve,  —  the  sacred- 
ness  and  awfulness  of  the  crisis  might  have  impelled  me 
to  steal  away  silently,  so  that  not  a  dry  leaf  should 
rustle  under  my  feet.  I  would  have  left  her  to  struggle, 
in  that  solitude,  with  only  the  eye  of  God  upon  her. 
But,  so  it  happened,  I  never  once  dreamed  of  question 
ing  my  right  to  be  there  now,  as  I  had  questioned  it 
just  before,  when  I  came  so  suddenly  upon  Hollings- 
worth  and  herself,  in  the  passion  of  their  recent  debate. 
It  suits  me  not  to  .explain  what  was  the  analogy  that  1 
saw,  or  imagined,  between  Zenobia's  situation  and  mine  ; 
nor,  I  believe,  will  the  reader  detect  this  one  secret, 
hidden  beneath  many  a  revelation  which  perhaps  con 
cerned  me  less.  In  simple  truth  however,  as  Zenobia 
leaned  her  forehead  against  the  rock,  shaken  with  that 
tearless  agony,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  self-same  pang 
with  hardly  mitigated  torment,  leaped  thrilling  from  hei 
Heart-strings  to  my  own.  Was  it  wrong,  therefore,  if  I 
felt  myself  consecrated  to  the  priesthood  by  sympathy 
like  this,  and  called  upon  to  minister  to  this  woman  s 
affliction,  so  far  as  vnortal  could  ? 


ZENOBIA    AND    COVERDALE.  259 

Bu..,  indeed,  what  could  mortal  do  for  her  ?  Nothing 
The  attempt  would  be  a  mockery  and  an  anguish 
Time,  it  is  true,  would  steal  away  her  grief  and  bury  '* 
and  the  best  of  her  heart  in  the  same  grave  But  Des 
tiny  itself,  methought,  in  its  kindliest  mood,  could  dt 
no  better  for  Zenobia,  in  the  way  of  quick  relief,  than  to 
cause  the  impending  rock  to  impend  a  little  further,  and 
fall  upon  her  head.  So  I  leaned  against  a  tree,  and 
listened  to  her  sobs,  in  unbroken  silence.  She  was  half 
prostrate,  half  kneeling,  with  her  forehead  still  pressed 
against  the  rock.  Her  sobs  were  the  only  sound ;  she 
did  not  groan,  nor  give  any  other  utterance  to  her  dis 
tress.  It  was  all  involuntary. 

At  length,  she  sat  up,  put  back  her  hair,  and  stared 
about  hex  with  a  bewildered  aspect,  as  if  not  distinctly 
recollecting  the  scene  through  which  she  had  passed 
nor  cognizant  of  the  situation  in  which  it  left  her.  Her 
face  and  brow  were  almost  purple  with  the  rush  of  blood. 
They  whitened,  however,  by  and  by,  and  for  some  time 
retained  this  death-like  hue.  She  put  her  hand  to  hei 
forehead,  with  a  gesture  that  made  me  forcibly  conscious 
of  an  intense  and  living  pain  there. 

Her  glance,  wandering  wildly  to  and  fro,  passed  over 
me  several  times,  without  appearing  to  inform  her  of 
my  presence.  But,  finally,  a  look  of  recognition 
gleamed  from  her  eyes  into  mine. 

"Is  it  you,  Miles  Coverdale?"  said  she,  smiling. 
•'  Ah,  perceive  what  you  are  about !  You  are  turning 
this  whole  affair  into  a  ballad.  Pray  let  me  hear  as 
many  stanzas  as  you  happen  to  have  ready ! " 

"  O,  hush,  Zenobia  !"  I  answered.  "  Heaven  knows 
what  an  acae  is  in  my  soul ! " 


260  THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

"  It  i?  genuine  tragedy,  is  it  not  1"  rejoine  I  Zenobia 
with  a  sharp,  light  laugh.  "  And  you  are  willing  tc 
allow,  peihaps,  that  I  have  had  hard  measure.  But  it  is 
a  woman's  doom,  and  I  have  deserved  it  like  a  woman  ; 
so  iet  there  be  no  pity,  as,  on  my  part,  there  shall  be  no 
complaint.  It  is  all  right,  now,  or  will  shortly  be  so. 
But,  Mr.  Coverdale,  by  all  means  write  this  ballad,  and 
put  your  soul's  ache  into  it,  and  turn  your  sympathy  to 
good  account,  as  other  poets  do,  and  as  poets  must, 
unless  they  choose  to  give  us  glittering  icicles  instead  of 
lines  of  fire.  As  for  the  moral,  it  shall  be  distilled  into 
the  final  stanza,  in  a  drop  of  bitter  honey." 

"What  shall  it  be,  Zenobia?"  I  inquired,  endeavor 
ing  to  fall  in  with  her  mood. 

"  0,  a  very  old  one  will  serve  the  purpose,"  she 
replied.  "  There  are  no  new  truths,  much  as  we  have 
prided  ourselves  on  finding  some.  A  moral  ?  Why, 
this  :  —  that,  in  the  battle-field  of  life,  the  downright 
stroke,  that  would  fall  only  on  a  man's  steel  head-piece. 
is  sure  to  light  on  a  woman's  heart,  over  which  she 
wears  no  breastplate,  and  whose  wisdom  it  is,  therefore, 
to  keep  out  of  the  conflict.  Or,  this  :  —  that  the  wnoie 
universe,  her  own  sex  and  yours,  and  Providence,  or 
Destiny,  to  boot,  make  common  cause  against  the 
woman  who  swerves  one  hair's  breadth  out  of  the  beaten 
track.  Yes  ;  and  add  (for  I  may  as  well  own  it,  now) 
that,  with  that  one  hair's  breadth,  she  goes  all  astray 
and  never  sees  the  world  in  its  true  aspect  afterwards  ' ' 

"  This  last  is  too  stern  a  moral,"  I  observed  "Can 
not  we  soften  it  a  little  ?" 

"  Do  it,  if  you  like,  at  your  own  peril,  not  on  m^ 
responsibility,"  she  answered.  Then,  with  a  sudden 


7ENOBIA   AND    COVERDALE.  261 

ehange  of  subject,  she  went  on :  "  After  all,  ne  has 
flung  avay  what  would  have  served  him  better  than 
the  poor,  pale  flower  he  kept.  What  can  Priscilla  do 
for  him  ?  Put  passionate  warmth  into  his  heart,  when 
it  shall  be  chilled  with  frozen  hopes  ?  Strengthen  his 
ho.nds,  when  they  are  weary- with  much  doing  and  no 
performance  ?  No  !  but  only  tend  towards  him  with  a 
b.ind,  instinctive  love,  and  hang  her  little,  puny  weak 
ness  for  a  clog  upon  his  arm  !  She  cannot  even  give 
him  such  sympathy  as  is  worth  the  name.  For  will  he 
never,  in  many  an  hour  of  darkness,  need  that  proud 
intellectual  sympathy  which  he  might  havj  had  from 
me  ?  —  the  sympathy  that  would  flash  light  along  his 
course,  and  guide  as  well  as  cheer  him  ?  Poor  Hoi- 
lingsworth  !  Where  will  he  find  it  now  ?  " 

"  Hollingsworth  has  a  heart  of  ice  !  "  said  I,  bitterly. 
"  He  is  a  wretch !  " 

"  Do  him  no  wrong,"  interrupted  Zenobia,  turning 
haughtily  upon  me.  "  Presume  not  to  estimate  a  man 
like  Hollingsworth.  It  was  my  fault,  all  along,  and  none 
of  his.  I  see  it  now !  He  never  sought  me.  Why 
should  he  seek  me  ?  What  had  I  to  offer  him  ?  A 
miserable,  bruised  and  battered  heart,  spoilt  long  before 
he  met  me.  A  life,  too,  hopelessly  entangled  with  a  vil 
lain's  !  He  did  well  to  cast  me  off.  God  be  praised, 
he  did  it !  And  yet,  had  he  trusted  me,  and  borpe 
with  me  a  little  longer,  I  would  have  saved  him  all  thi« 
trouble." 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  stood  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground.  Again  raising  them,  her  look  w»« 
more  mild  and  caAm. 

"  Miles  Coverddle  !  "  said  she. 


262  THE    BLITHEPALE    ROMANCE 

"  Well,  Zenobia,"  I  responded.  "Can  I  do  '1ou  any 
service  ? " 

"  Very  little,"  she  replied.  "  But  it  is  my  purpose,  aa 
you  may  well  imagine,  to  remove  from  Blithedale  ;  and, 
most  likely,  I  may  not  see  Hollingsworth  again.  A 
woman  in  my  position,  you  understand,  feels  scarcely  at 
her  ease  among  former  friends.  New  faces  —  unaccus 
tomed  looks  —  those  only  can  she  tolerate.  She  would 
pine  among  familiar  scenes ;  she  would  be  apt  to  blush, 
too,  under  the  eyes  that  knew  her  secret ;  her  heart  might 
throb  uncomfortably ;  she  would  mortify  herself,  I  sup 
pose,  with  foolish  notions  of  having  sacrificed  the  honor 
of  her  sex  at  the  foot  of  proud,  contumacious  man. 
Poor  womanhood,  with  its  rights  and  wrongs !  Here 
will  be  new  matter  for  my  course  of  lectures,  at  the  idea 
uf  which  you  smiled,  Mr.  Coverdale,  a  month  or  two 
ago.  But,  as  you  have  really  a  heart  and  sympathies, 
as  far  as  they  go,  and  as  I  shall  depart  without  seeing 
Hollingsworth,  I  must  entreat  you  to  be  a  messenger 
between  him  and  me." 

"  Willingly,"  said  I,  wondering  at  the  strange  way  in 
which  her  mind  seemed  to  vibrate  from  the  deepest  ear 
nest  to  mere  levity.  "  What  is  the  message  ?  " 

"  True,  —  what  is  it  ?  "  exclaimed  Zenobia.  "  Aftei 
all,  I  hardly  know.  On  better  consideration,  I  have  no 
message.  Tell  him,  —  tell  him  something  pretty  and 
pathetic,  that  will  come  nicely  and  sweetly  into  your 
ballad,  —  anything  you  please,  so  it  be  tender  and 
submissive  enough.  Tell  him  he  has  murdered  me  ! 
Tell  him  that  I  '11  haunt  him  !  "  —  she  spoke  these 
words  with  the  wildest  energy.  —  "  And  give  him  —  na 
give  PirsciU?  —  this  !  " 


ZENDBIA    AND    COVERDALE.  » 

Thus  saying,  she  took  the  jewelled  flower  out  of  hil 
aaii ;  and  it  struck  me  as  the  act  -of  a  queen,  when 
worsted  in  a  combat,  discrowning  herself,  as  if  she  found 
a  sort  of  relief  in  abusing  all  her  pride. 

"  Bid  her  weai  this  for  Zenobia's  sake,"  she  continued. 
"  She  is  a  pretty  little  creature,  and  will  make  as  soft 
and  gentle  a  wife  as  the  veriest  Bluebeard  could  desire. 
Pity  that  she  must  fade  so  soon !  These  delicate  and 
puny  maidens  always  do.  Ten  years  hence,  let  Hoi- 
lingsworth  look  at  my  face  and  Priscilla's,  and  then 
choose  betwixt  them.  Or,  if  he  pleases,  let  him  do  it 
now." 

How  magnificently  Zenobia  looked,  as  she  said  this ! 
The  effect  of  her  beauty  was  even  heightened  by  the 
over-consciousness  and  self-recognition  of  it,  into  which, 
I  suppose,  Rollings  worth's  scorn  had  driven  her.  She 
understood  the  look  of  admiration  in  my  face ;  and 
Zenobn  'o  the  last  —  it  gave  her  pleasure. 

"  It  is  an  endless  pity,"  said  she,  "  that  I  had  not 
bethought  myself  of  winning  your  heart,  Mr.  Coverdale, 
instead  of  Hollingsworth's.  I  think  I  should  have  suc 
ceeded  ;  and  many  women  would  have  deemed  you  the 
worthier  conquest  of  the  two.  You  are  certainly  much 
;he  handsomest  man.  But  there  is  a  fate  in  these 
things.  And  beauty,  in  a  man,  has  been  of  little 
account  with  me,  since  my  earliest  girlhood,  when,  (CT 
once,  it  turned  my  head.  Now,  farewell !  " 

"  Zenobia,  whither  are  you  going  ?  "  I  asked 

'*  No  matter  where,"  said  she.  "  But  I  am  weary  of 
this  place,  and  sick  to  death  of  piaying  at  philanthropy 
atd  progress.  Of  all  varieties  of  mock-life,  we  have 
surely  b  jindered  into  *he  very  emptiest  mockery  in  >u* 


964  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

effort  to  esfy'jlish  the  one  true  system.  I  have  dont 
with  it;  anl  Blithedale  must  find  anothei  woman  to 
superintend  the  laundry,  and  you,  Mr.  Coverdale, 
another  nurse  to  make  your  gruel,  the  next  time  you  fall 
ill.  It  was,  indeed,  a  foolish  dream !  Yet  it  gave  us 
some  pleasant  summer  days,  and  bright  hopes,  while 
they  lasted.  It  can  do  no  more  ;  nor  will  it  avail  us  to 
shed  tears  over  a  broken  bubble.  Here  is  my  hand ! 
Adieu!" 

She  gave  me  her  hand,  with  the  same  free,  whole- 
.stiuled  gesture  as  on  the  first  afternoon  of  our  acquaint 
ance  ,  and,  being  greatly  moved,  I  bethought  me  of  no 
better  method  of  expressing  my  deep  sympathy  than  to 
carry  it  to  my  lips.  In  so  doing,  I  perceived  that  thia 
white  hand  —  so  hospitably  warm  when  I  first  touched 
it,  five  months  since  —  was  now  cold  as  a  veritable  piece 
ot  snow. 

"  How  very  cold !  "  I  exclaimed,  holding  it  between 
both  my  own,  with  the  vain  idea  of  warming  it.  "What 
can  be  the  reason  ?  It  is  really  death-like  !  " 

"  The  extremities  die  first,  they  say,"  answered  Zeno- 
bia,  laughing.  "  And  so  you  kiss  this  poor,  despised, 
rejected  hand  !  Well,  my  dear  friend,  I  thank  you.  You 
nave  reserved  your  homage  for  the  fallen.  Lip  of  man 
vill  never  touch  my  hand  again.  I  intend  to  become  a 
Catholic,  for  the  sake  of  going  into  a  nunnery.  When 
you  next  hear  of  Zenobia,  her  face  will  be  behind  the 
black  veil ;  so  look  your  last  at  it  now  —  for  all  is  over  . 
Once  more,  farewell  !  " 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  yet  left  a  lingering  pressure, 
which  I  felt  long  afterwards.  So  intimately  connectec, 
%s  I  had  been  with  perhaps  the  only  man  in  whom  she 


ZENOBIA  AND  COVERDALE.  265 

was  eve/  truly  interested,  Zenobia  looked  in  me  as  the 
representative  of  all  the  past,  and  was  conscious  that,  in 
bidding  me  adieu,  she  likewise  took  final  leave  of  Hol- 
lingsworth,  and  of  this  whole  epoch  of  her  life.  Never 
aid  her  beauty  shine  out  more  lustrously  than  in  the 
last  glimpse  that  I  had  of  her.  She  departed,  and  was 
soon  hidden  among  the  trees. 

But,  whether  it  was  the  strong  impression  of  the  fore 
going  scene,  or  whatever  else  the  cause,  I  was  affected 
with  a  fantasy  that  Zenobia  had  not  actually  gone,  but 
was  still  hovering  about  the  spot  and  haunting  it.  I 
seemed  to  feel  her  eyes  upon  me.  It  was  as  if  the  vivid 
coloring  of  her  character  had  left  a  brilliant  stain  upon 
the  air.  By  degrees,  however,  the  impression  grew  less 
distinct.  I  flung  myself  upon  the  fallen  leaves  at  the 
base  of  Eliot's  pulpit.  The  sunshine  withdrew  up  the 
tree-trunks,  and  nickered  on  the  topmost  boughs ;  gray 
twilight  made  the  wood  obscure ;  the  stars  brightened 
out ;  the  pendent  boughs  became  wet  with  chill  autumnal 
dews.  But  I  was  listless,  worn  out  with  emotion  on  my 
own  behalf  and  sympathy  for  others,  and  had  no  heart 
to  leave  my  comfortless  lair  beneath  the  rock. 

I  must  have  fallen  asleep,  and  had  a  dream,  all  the 
circumstances  of  which  utterly  vanished  at  the  moment 
when  they  converged  to  some  tragical  catastrophe,  and 
thus  gre  »v  too  powerful  for  the  thin  sphere  of  slumber  that 
enveloped  them.  Starting  from  the  ground,  I  found  the 
risen  moon  shining  upon  the  rugged  face  of  the  lock 
Mid  mvself  all  in  a  tremble. 


XXVII. 

MIDNIGHT. 

IT  could  not  have  been  far  from  midnight  when  1 
came  beneath  Rollings-worth's  window,  and,  muling  it 
open,  flung  in  a  tuft  of  grass  with  earth  at  the  roots,  and 
heard  it  fall  upon  the  floor.  He  was  either  awake  or 
sleeping  very  lightly ;  for  scarcely  a  moment  had  gone 
by,  before  he  looked  out,  and  discerned  me  standing  in 
the  moonlight. 

"  Is  it  you,  Coverdale  ? "  he  asked.  "  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"Come  down  to  me,  Holli ngs worth !"  I  answered. 
"  I  am  anxious  to  speak  with  you." 

The  strange  tone  of  my  own  voice  startled  me,  and 
him,  probably,  no  less.  He  lost  no  time,  and  soon  issued 
from  the  house-door,  with  his  dress  half  arranged. 

"  Again,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  he  asked,  impatiently. 

"  Have  you  seen  Zenobia,"  said  I,  "  since  you  parted 
from  her,  at  Eliot's  pulpit  ? 

"No,"  answered  Hoi]  ings , vorth  ;  "nor  did  I  expect 
it/' 

His  voice  was  deep,  but  had  a  tremor  in  it.  Hardly 
had  h?  spoken,  when  Silas  Foster  thrust  his  head,  done 
ip  in  a  cotton  handkerchief,  out  of  another  window,  and 
look  what  he  called  —  as  it  literally  was  — a  squint  a 
us 

••  WeJ.  folks,  vi  hat  are  ye  about  here  ?  "  he  demanded 


MIDNIGHT.  26*7 

*Aha.  are  you  there,  Miles  Coverdale?  Vou  havt 
oeen  turning  night  into  day,  since  you  left  us,  I  reckon ; 
and  so  you  find  it  quite  natural  to  come  prowling  about 
the  house  at  this  time  o'  night,  frightening  my  old 
woman  out  of  her  wits,  and  making  her  disturb  a  tired 
man  out  of  his  best  nap.  In  with  you,  you  vagabond, 
nnd  to  bed  !  " 

"  Dress  yourself  quietly,  Foster,"  said  I.  "  We  want 
your  assistance." 

I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  keep  that  strange  tone 
out  of  my  voice.  Silas  Foster,  obtuse  as  were  his  sensi 
bilities,  seemed  to  feel  the  ghastly  earnestness  that  was 
conveyed  in  it  as  well  as  Hollingsworth  did.  He 
immediately  withdrew  his  head,  and  I  heard  him  yawn 
ing,  muttering  to  his  wife,  and  again  yawning  heavily, 
while  he  hurried  on  his  clothes.  Meanwhile,  I  showed 
Hollingsworth  a  delicate  handkerchief,  marked  with  a 
well-known  cipher,  and  told  where  I  had  found  it,  and 
other  circumstances,  which  had  filled  me  with  a  suspicion 
so  terrible  that  I  left  him,  if  he  dared,  to  shape  it  out  for 
himself.  By  the  time  my  brief  explanation  was  finished, 
we  were  joined  by  Silas  Foster,  in  his  blue  woolJen 
frock. 

{'Well,  boys,"  cried  he,  peevishly,  "what  is  to  pay 

i\OW  ?  " 

"  Tell  him,  Hollingsworth,"  said  I. 

Hollingsworth  shivered,  perceptibly,  and  drew  in  a 
hard  breath  betwixt  his  teeth.  He  steadied  himself, 
however,  and,  looking  the  matter  more  firmly  in  the 
face  th  in  I  had  done,  explained  to  Fester  my  suspicions, 
vid  the  grounds  of  them,  with  a  distinctness  from  which 
'n  spile  cf  my  utmost  efforts,  my  words  had  swerved 


THE    BLITHE  DALE    ROMANCE. 

aside.  The  tough-nerved  yeoman,  in  his  comment,  put 
a  finish  on  the  business,  and  brought  out  the  hideoua 
idea  in  its  full  terror,  as  if  he  were  removing  the  napkin 
from  the  face  of  a  corpse. 

"  And  so  you  think  she's  drowned  herself?"  he  cried. 

I  turned  away  my  face. 

"  What  on  earth  should  the  young  woman  do  that 
for ? "  exclaimed  Silas,  his  eyes  half  out  of  his  head  with 
mere  surprise.  "  Why,  she  has  more  means  than  she 
can  use  or  waste,  and  lacks  nothing  to  make  her  com 
fortable,  but  a  husband,  and  that's  an  article  she  could 
have,  any  day.  There  's  some  mistake  about  this,  I  tell 
you ! " 

"  Come,"  said  I,  shuddering ;  "  let  us  go  and  ascertain 
the  truth." 

"  Well,  well,"  answered  Silas  Foster;  "just  as  you 
say.  We  '11  take  the  long  pole,  with  the  hook  at  the 
end,  that  serves  to  get  the  bucket  out  of  the  draw-well, 
when  the  rope  is  broken.  With  that,  and  a  couple  of 
long-handled  hay-rakes,  I  '11  answer  for  finding  her,  if 
she  's  anywhere  to  be  found.  Strange  enough  !  Zenobia 
drown  herself !  No,  no ;  I  don't  believe  it.  She  had 
too  much  sense,  and  too  much  means,  and  enjoyed  life  i 
great  deal  too  well." 

When  our  few  preparations  were  completed,  we 
hastened,  by  a  shorter  than  the  customary  route,  through 
fields  and  pastures,  and  across  a  portion  of  the  meadow, 
to  the  particular  spot  on  the  river-bank  which  I  had 
paused  to  contemplate  in  the  course  of  my  afternoon's 
/amble.  A  nameless  presentiment  had  again  drawn  me 
thither,  ifter  leaving  Eliot's  pulpit.  I  showed  my  com 
panions  where  I  had  found  the  handkerchief,  and  pointed 


MIDNIGHT.  iJ69 

to  two  or  thr^e  footsteps,  impressed  into  the  clayey  mar 
gin,  and  tending  towards  the  water.  Beneath  its  shal 
low  verge,  among  the  water-weeds,  there  were  further 
traces,  as  yet  unobliterated  by  the  sluggish  current, 
which  was  there  almost  at  a  stand-still.  Silas  Foster 
thrust  his  face  down  close  to  these  footsteps,  and  picked 
up  ?  shoe  that  had  escaped  my  observation  being  half 
imbedded  in  the  mud. 

**  There 's  a  kid  shoe  that  never  was  made  on  a  Yan 
kee  last,"  observed  he.  "  I  know  enough  of  shoemaker's 
craft  to  tell  that.  French  manufacture ;  and,  see  what  a 
high  instep !  and  how  evenly  she  trod  in  it !  There 
never  was  a  woman  that  stept  handsomer  in  her  shoes 
than  Zenobia  did.  Here,"  he  added,  addressing  Hoi- 
'ingsworth ;  "would  you  like  to  keep  the  shoe  ?" 

Hollingsworth  started  back. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Foster,"  said  I. 

I  dabbled  it  in  the  water,  to  rinse  off  the  mud,  ana 
have  kept  it  ever  since.  Not  far  from  this  spot  lay  an 
old,  leaky  punt,  drawn  up  on  the  oozy  river-side,  and 
generally'  half  full  of  water.  It  served  the  angler  to  go 
in  quest  of  pickerel,  or  the  sportsman  to  pick  up  his  wild 
ducks.  Setting  this  crazy  bark  afloat,  I  seated  myself 
in  the  stern  with  the  paddle,  while  Hollingsworth  sat  in 
the  bows  with  the  hooked  pole,  and  Silas  Foster  amid 
ships  with  a  hay-rake. 

"  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  young  days,"  remarked 
Silas,  "  when  I  used  to  steal  out  of  bed  to  go  bobbing  for 
horn-pouts  and  eels.  Heigh-ho  !  —  well,  life  and  death 
together  make  sad  work  for  us  all !  Then  I  was  a  boy, 
bobbing  for  fish  ;  and  now  I  am  getting  tc  be  an  old  tel- 
jew,  and  here  I  be,  groping  for  a  dead  body !  I  tall  you 


270  TUB    BLITHEDALK    ROMANCE. 

what,  lads,  if  i  thought  anything  had  really  happenr.d  to 
Zenobia,  I  should  feel  kind  o'  sorrowful." 

"I  wish,  at  ^east,  you  would  hold  your  tongue,"  muf> 
tered  I. 

The  moon,  that  night,  though  past  the  full,  was  stil1 
large  and  oval,  and  having  risen  between  eight  and  nine 
o'clock,  now  shone  aslantwise  over  the  river,  throwing 
the  high,  opposite  bank,  with  its  woods,  into  deep 
shadow,  but  lighting  up  the  hither  shore  pretty  effectu 
ally.  Not  a  ray  appeared  to  fall  on  the  river  itself.  It 
lapsed  imperceptibly  away,  a  broad,  black,  inscrutable 
depth,  keeping  its  own  secrets  from  the  eye  of  man,  as 
impenetrably  as  mid-ocean  could. 

"  Well,  Miles  Coverdale,"  said  Foster,  "  you  are  the 
helmsman.  How  do  you  mean  to  manage  this  busi 
ness?" 

"  I  shall  let  the  boat  drift,  broadside  foremost,  past 
that  stump,"  I  replied.  "  I  know  the  bottom,  having 
sounded  it  in  fishing.  The  shore,  on  this  side,  after  the 
first  step  or  two,  goes  off  very  abruptly ;  and  there  is  a 
pool,  just  by  the  stump,  twelve  or  fifteen  feet  deep. 
The  current  could  not  have  force  enough  to  sweep  any 
sunken  object,  even  if  partially  buoyant,  out  of  that  h 
W." 

"Come,  then,"  said  Silas;  "but  I  doubt  whether  J 
ean  touch  bottom  with  this  hay-rake,  if  it 's  as  deep  a* 
^ou  say.  Mr.  Hollingsworth,  I  think  you'-  be  the 
lucky  man  to-night,  such  luck  as  it  is." 

We  floated  past  the  stump.  Silas  Foster  plied  his 
rake  manfully,  poking  it  as  far  as  he  could  into  the 
ivater,  and  immersing  the  whole  length  of  his  arm 
besides  He "]  ings  worth  at  first  sat  motionless,  with  the 


MIDNIGHT.  271 

aooked  pole  elevated  in  the  air.  But,  by  and  by,  with  a 
nervous  and  jerky  movement,  he  began  to  plunge  it  into 
the  blackness  that  upbore  us,  setting  his  teeth,  and  mak- 
•ng  precisely  such  thrusts,  methought,  as  if  he  were 
stabbing  at  a  deadly  enemy.  I  bent  over  the  side  of  the 
boat.  So  obscure,  however,  so  awfully  mysterious,  was 
that  dark  stream,  that  —  and  the  thought  made  me 
shiver  like  a  leaf — I  might  as  well  have  tried  to  look 
into  the  enigma  of  the  eternal  world,  to  discover  what 
had  become  of  Zenobia's  soul,  as  into  the  river's  depths, 
to  find  her  body.  And  there,  perhaps,  she  lay,  with  hei 
face  upward,  while  the  shadow  of  the  boat,  and  my 
own  pale  face  peering  downward,  passed  slowly  betwixt 
her  and  the  sky  ! 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  I  paddled  the  boat  up  stream,  and 
again  suffered  it  to  glide,  with  the  river's  slow,  funereal 
motion,  downward.  Silas  Foster  had  raked  up  a  large 
mass  of  stuff,  which,  as  it  came  towards  the  surface, 
looked  somewhat  like  a  flowing  garment,  but  proved  to 
be  a  monstrous  tuft  of  water-weeds.  Hollingsworth, 
with  a  o-igantic  effort,  upheaved  a  sunken  log.  When 
once  free  of  the  bottom,  it  rose  partly  out  of  water,  —  all 
weedy  and  slimy,  a  devilish-looking  object,  which  the 
rroon  had  not  shone  upon  for  half  a  hundred  years,  — 
tnen  plunged  again,  and  sullenly  returned  to  its  old 
resting-ylace,  for  the  remnant  of  the  century. 

"  That  looked  ugly !  "  quoth  Silas.  "  I  half  thought 
it  was  t.le  evil  one,  on  the  same  errand  as  ourselves,  — 
searching  for  Zenobia." 

"  He  shall  never  get  her,  said  I,  giving  the  boat  a 
'trong  impulse. 

"That's  not  for  you  to  say,  my  boy/' retorted  the 


272  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

yeoman.  "Pray  God  he  never  has,  and  ri»ver  may 
Slow  work  this,  however !  1  should  really  be  glad  to 
find  something !  Pshaw !  What  a  notion  that  is,  when 
the  only  good  luck  would  be  to  paddle,  and  drift,  and 
poke,  and  grope,  hereabouts,  till  morning,  and  have  our 
labor  for  our  pains  !  For  my  part,  I  should  n't  wonder 
if  the  creature  had  only  lost  her  shoe  in  the  mud,  and 
saved  her  soul  alive,  after  all.  My  stars  !  how  she  r.viL 
laugh  at  us,  to-morrow  morning  !  " 

It  is  indescribable  what  an  image  of  Zenobia  —  at  the 
breakfast-table,  full  of  warm  and  mirthful  life  —  this  sur 
mise  of  Silas  Foster's  brought  before  my  mind.  The 
terrible  phantasm  of  her  death  was  thrown  by  it  into  the 
remotest  and  dimmest  back-ground,  where  it  seemed  to 
grow  as  improbable  as  a  myth. 

"  Yes,  Silas,  it  may  be  as  you  say,"  cried  1. 

The  drift  of  the  stream  had  again  borne  us  a  lit 
tle  below  the  stump,  when  I  felt,  —  yes,  felt,  for  it 
was  as  if  the  iron  hook  had  smote  my  breast,  —  felt 
Boilings  worth's  yx^le  strike  some  object  at  the  bottom 
of  the  river !  He  started  up,  and  almost  overset  the 
boat. 

"  Hold  on  !  "  cried  Foster ;  "  you  have  her  !  " 

Putting  a  fury  of  strength  into  the  effort,  Rollings- 
worth  heaved  amain,  and  up  came  a  white  swash  to 
the  surface  of  the  river.  It  was  the  flow  of  a  woman's 
garments.  A  little  higher,  and  we  saw  her  dark  hair 
streaming  down  the  current.  Black  River  of  Death, 
thou  hadst  yielded  up  thy  victim !  Zenobia  was  found 

Silas  Foster  laid  hold  of  the  body;  Hollings worth, 
ikevrise,  grappled  with  it;  and  I  steered  towards  the 
bank*  gazing  all  the  while  at  Zenobia,  whose  Irnbs  were 


MIDNIGHT.  273 

swaying  in  the  current  close  at  the  boat's  side.  Arriv 
ing  neir  the  shore,  we  all  three  stept  into  the  water, 
bore  her  out,  and  laid  her  on  the  ground  beneuth  a 
,ree. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  Foster,—  and  his  dry  old  heart, 
I  verily  believe,  vouchsafed  a  tear,  —  "I'm  sorry  for 
her ! " 

Were  I  to  describe  the  perfect  horror  of  the  spectacle, 
the  reader  might  justly  reckon  it  to  me  for  a  sin  and 
shame.  For  more  than  twelve  long  years  I  have  born* 
it  in  my  memory,  and  could  now  reproduce  it  as  freshlj 
as  if  it  were  still  before  my  eyes.  Of  all  modes  of 
death,  methinks  it  is  the  ugliest.  Her  wet  garments 
swathed  limbs  of  terrible  inflexibility.  She  was  the 
marble  image  of  a  death-agony.  Her  arms  had  grown 
rigid  in  the  act  of  struggling,  and  were  bent  before  her 
with  clenched  hands ;  her  knees,  too,  were  bent,  and  — 
thank  God  for  it !  — in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  Ah,  that 
rigidity !  It  is  impossible  to  bear  the  terror  of  it.  It 
Deemed,  —  i  must  needs  impart  so  much  of  my  own  mis 
erable  idea,  —  it  seemed  as  if  her  body  must  keep  the 
same  position  in  the  coffin,  and  that  her  skeleton  would 
keep  it  in  the  grave ;  and  that  when  Zenobia  rose  at  the 
day  of  judgment,  it  would  be  in  just  the  same  attitude 
as  now ! 

One  hope  1  had ;  and  that,  too,  was  mingled  half  with 
fear.  She  knelt,  as  if  in  prayer.  With  the  last,  chok 
ing  consciousness,  her  soul,  bubbling  out  through'  hei 
lips,  it  may  be,  had  given  itself  up  to.  the  Father,  recon 
ciled  and  penitent.  But  her  arms !  They  were  benf 
before  her  as  if  she  struggled  against  Providence  11 
18 


274  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

never-ending  hostility.  Her  hands !  They  'veie  clenchea 
in  immitigable  defiance.  Away  with  the  hideous  thought 
The  flitting  moment  after  Zenobia  sank  into  the  dark 
pool  —  when  her  breath  was  gone,  and  her  soul  at  hei 
lips  —  was  as  long,  in  its  capacity  of  God's  infinite  for* 
giveness,  as  the  lifetime  of  the  world  ! 

Foster  bent  over  the  body,  and  carefully  examined  K 

"  You  have  wounded  the  poor  thing's  breast,"  said  he 
to  Boilings  worth  ;  "  close  by  her  heart,  to^  !  " 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Hollingsworth,  with  a  start. 

And  so  he  had,  indeed,  both  before  and  after  death  ! 

"  See  !  "  said  Foster.  "  That 's  the  place  where  the 
iron  struck  her.  It  looks  cruelly,  but  she  never  felt 
't'  " 

He  endeavored  to  arrange  the  arms  of  the  corpse 
decently  by  its  side.  His  utmost  strength,  however, 
scarcely  sufficed  to  bring  them  down  ;  and  rising  again, 
the  next  instant,  they  bade  him  defiance,  exactly  as 
oefore.  He  made  another  effort,  with  the  same  result. 

"  In  God's  name,  Silas  Foster,"  cried  I,  with  bitter 
indignation,  "let  that  dead  woman  alone  !  " 

"  Why,  man,  it 's  not  decent !  "  answered  he,  staring 
t\t  me  in  amazement.  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  her  looking 
so  !  Well,  well,"  added  he,  after  a  third  effort,  "  't  is  of 
no  use,  Isure  enough  ;  and  we  must  leave  the  women  tc 
do  their  best  with  her,  after  we  get  to  the  house.  The 
sooner  that 's  done,  the  better." 

We  took  two  rails  from  a  neighboring  fence,  ana 
formed  a  bier  by  laying  across  some  boards  from  the  bot 
tom  of  the  boat.  And  thus  we  bore  Zenobia  home 
ward.  Six  hours  before,  how  beautiful !  At  midnight 
vhat  a  horror  A  reflection  occurs  k  me  that  *vil 


MIDNIGHT. 

show  ludicrously,  I  doubt  not,  on  my  page,  but  must 
come  in,  for  its  sterling  truth.  Being  the  woman  that 
she  was,  could  Zenobia  have  foreseen  all  these  ugly  cir 
cumstances  of  death,  —  how  ill  it  would  become  her,  the 
altogether  unseemly  aspect  which  she  must  put  on,  and 
especially  old  Silas  Foster's  efforts  to  improve  the  mat 
ter,  —  she  would  no  more  have  committed  the  dreadful 
act  than  have  exhibited  herself  to  a  public  assembly  in  a 
badly-fitting  garment !  Zenobia,  1  have  often  thought, 
was  not  quite  simple  in  her  death.  She  had  seen  pic 
tures,  I  suppose,  of  drowned  persons  in  lithe  and  grace 
ful  attitudes.  And  she  deemed  it  well  and  decorous  to 
die  as  so  many  village  maidens  have,  wronged  in  their 
first  love,  and  seeking  peace  in  the  bosom  of  the  old, 
familiar  stream,  —  so  familiar  that  they  could  not  dread 
it,  —  where,  in  childhood,  they  used  to  bathe  their  little 
feet,  wading  mid-leg  deep,  unmindful  of  wet  skirts.  But 
in  Zenobia's  case  there  was  some  tint  of  the  Arcadiar 
affectation  that  had  been  visible  enough  in  all  our  lives 
for  a  few  months  past. 

This,  however,  to  my  conception,  takes  nothing  fror. 
the  tragedy.  For,  has  not  the  world  come  to  an  awfuih 
sophisticated  pass,  when,  after  a  certain  degree  of  ac 
quaintance  with  it,  we  cannot  even  put  ourselves  t 
death  in  whole-hearted  simplicity  ? 

Slowly,  slowly,  with  many  a  dreary  pause,  —  resting 
the  bier  often  on  some  rock,  or  balancing  it  across  L 
mossy  log,  to  take  fresh  hold,  —  we  bore  our  burthei. 
onward  through  the  moonlight,  and  at  last  laid  Zenobia 
on  the  floor  of  the  old  farm-house.  By  and  by  came 
three  or  four  withered  women,  and  stood  whispering 
around  the  corpse,  peering  at  it  through  their  spectacles 


THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 


nolding  up  their  skinny  hands,  shaking  their  mght-capt 
heads,  and  taking  counsel  of  one  another's  experience 
what  was  to  be  done. 

With  those  tire  women  we  left  Zenobia 


XXVIII. 

BIITHEDALE  PASTUHE. 

BLITIIEDALE,  thus  far  in  its  progress,  had  never  lound 
the  necessity  of  a  burial-ground.  There  was  some  con 
sultation  among  us  in  what  spot  Zenobia  might  most 
fitly  be  laid.  It  was  my  own  wish  that  she  should  sleep 
at  the  base  of  Eliot's  pulpit,  and  that  on  the  rugged 
front  of  the  rock  the  name  by  which  we  familiarly  knew 
her,  —  ZENOBIA,  —  and  not  another  word,  should  be 
deeply  cut,  and  left  for  the  moss  and  lichens  to  fill  up  at 
their  long  leisure.  But  Rollings  worth  (to  whose  ideas 
on  this  point  great  deference  was  due)  made  it  his  request 
that  her  grave  might  be  dug  on  the  gently  sloping  hill 
side,  in  th»  wide  pasture,  where,  as  we  once  supposed, 
Zenobia  and  he  had  planned  to  build  their  cottage.  And 
thus  it  was  done,  accordingly. 

She  was  buried  very  much  as  other  people  have  been 
for  hundreds  of  years  gone  by.  In  anticipation  of  a 
death,  we  Blithedale  colonists  had  sometimes  set  our 
fancies  at  work  to  arrange  a  funereal  ceremony,  which 
should  be  the  proper  symbolic  expression  of  our  spiritual 
faith  and  eternal  hopes ;  and  this  we  meant  to  substi 
tute  for  those  customary  rites  which  were  moulded  orig 
inally  out  of  the  Gothic  gloom,  and  by  long  use,  like  an 
old  velvet  pall,  have  so  much  more  than  their  first  death- 
omell  in  them.  But  when  the  occasion  came,  we  found 
ti  the  simplest  and  truest  thing,  after  all  to  content  our 


o  <3  THE    BL1THEDALE    ROMANCE 

selves  with  the  old  fashion,  taking  away  what  we  co,.,<l 
but  interpolating  no  novelties,  and  particularly  avoiding 
all  frippery  of  flowers  and  cheerful  emblems.  The  pro 
cession  moved  from  the  farm-house.  Nearest  the  dead 
walked  an  old  man  in  deep  mourning,  his  face  mostl} 
concealed  in  a  white  handkerchief,  and  with  Priscilla 
leaning  on  his  arm.  Hollingsworth  and  myself  came 
next  We  all  stood  around  the  narrow  niche  in  the  cold 
earth ;  all  saw  the  coffin  lowered  in  ;  all  heard  the  rattle 
of  the  crumbly  soil  upon  its  lid,  —  that  final  sound,  which 
mortality  awakens  on  the  utmost  verge  of  sense,  as  if  in 
the  vain  hope  of  bringing  an  echo  from  the  spiritual 
world. 

I  noticed  a  stranger,  —  a  stranger  to  most  of  those 
present,  though  known  to  me, —  who,  after  the  coffin 
had  descended,  took  up  a  handful  of  earth,  and  flung  it 
first  into  the  grave.  I  had  given  up  Hollingsworth 'a 
arm,  and  now  found  myself  near  this  man. 

"It  was  an  idle  thing  —  a  foolish  thing  —  for  Zeno 
<>ia  to  do,"  said  he.  "  She  was  the  last  woman  in  the 
world  to  whom  death  could  have  been  necessary.  It  was 
too  absurd  !  1  have  no  patience  with  her." 

"  Why  so  ? "  I  inquired,  smothering  my  horror  at  his 
.".old  comment  in  my  eager  curiosity  to  discover  some 
tangible  truth  as  to  his  relation  with  Zenobia.  "  If  tiny 
crisis  could  justify  the  sad  wrong  she  offered  to  herself, 
it  was  surely  that  in  which  she  stood.  Everything  had 
failed  her;  —  prosperity  in  the  world's  sense,  for  hei 
»pulence  was  gone,  —  the  heart's  prosperity,  in  love. 
And  there  was  a  secret  burthen  on  her,  the  nature  ot 
which  is  best  known  to  you.  Young  as  she  was,  she 
r.ad  tried  '\fe  fully,  had  no  more  to  'lope,  and  sorccthi.ig 


BLITHEDALE    PASTURE.  279 

perhaps,  to  fear.  Had  Providence  taken  her  away  in  its 
own  holy  hand,  I  should  have  thought  it  the  kindest 
dispensation  that  could  be  awarded  to  one  so  wrecked." 
4  You  mistake  the  matter  completely,"  rejoined  West- 
ervelt. 

"  What,  then,  is  your  own  view  of  it  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Her  mind  was  active,  and  various  in  its  powers," 
said  he.  "  Her  heart  had  a  manifold  adaptation  ;  her 
constitution  an  infinite  buoyancy,  which  (had  she  pos 
sessed  only  a  little  patience  to  await  the  reflux  of  her 
troubles)  would  have  borne  her  upward,  triumphantly 
for  twenty  years  to  come.  Her  beauty  would  not  have 
waned  —  or  scarcely  so,  and  surely  not  beyond  the  reach 
of  art  to  restore  it  —  in  all  that  time.  She  had  life's 
summer  all  before  her,  and  a  hundred  varieties  of  bril 
liant  success.  What  an  actress  Zenobia  miffht  have* 
been  !  It  was  one  of  her  least  valuable  capabilities. 
How  forcibly  she  might  have  wrought  upon  the  world, 
either  directly  in  her  own  person,  or  by  her  influence 
upon  some  man,  or  a  series  of  men,  of  controlling  gen 
ius  !  Every  prize  that  could  be  worth  a  woman's  hav 
ing —  and  many  prizes  which  other  women  are  too 
tfrnid  to  desire  —  lay  within  Zenobia's  reach." 

In  all   this,"  I  observed,  "  there   would  have  bee* 
nothing  to  satisfy  her  heart." 

"  Her  heart !  "  answered  Westervelt,  contemptuously. 
••  That  troublesome  organ  (as  she  had  hitherto  found  it) 
would  have  been  kept  in  its  due  place  and  degree,  and 
have  had  all  the  gratification  it  could  fairly  claim.  She 
would  soon  have  established  a  control  over  it.  Love 
had  failed  her,  you  say.  Had  it  never  failed  her  be- 
tore  ?  Vet  she  survived  it,  and  loved  again,  —-possibly 


280  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

not  once  alone,  nor  twice  either.     And  now  to  drown 
nerself  for  yonder  dreamy  philanthropist !  " 

"Who  arc  you,"  I  exclaimed,  indignantly,  "  that  dare 
to  speak  thus  of  the  dead  ?  You  seem  to  intend  a 
eulogy,  yet  leave  out  whatever  was  noblest  in  her,  and 
blacken  while  you  mean  to  praise.  I  have  long  consid 
ered  you  as  Zenobia's  evil  fate.  Your  sentiments  con 
firm  me  in  the  idea,  but  leave  me  still  ignorant  as  to  the 
mode  in  which  you  have  influenced  her  life.  The  con 
nection  may  have  been  indissoluble,  except  by  death. 
Then,  indeed,  —  always  in  the  hope  of  God's  infinite 
mercy,  —  I  cannot  deem  it  a  misfortune  that  she  sleeps 
in  yonder  grave  !  " 

"  No  matter  what  I  was  to  her,"  he  answered,  gloom 
ily,  yet  without  actual  emotion.  "  She  is  now  beyon^ 
my  reach.  Had  she  lived,  and  hearkened  to  my  coun 
sels,  we  might  have  served  each  other  well.  But  there 
Zenobia  lies  in  yonder  pit,  with  the  dull  earth  over  her. 
Twenty  years  of  a  brilliant  lifetime  thrown  away  for  a 
mere  woman's  whim  !  " 

Heaven  deal  with  Westervelt  according  to  his  nature 
and  deserts  !  —  that  is  to  say,  annihilate  him.  He  was 
altogether  earthy,  worldly,  made  for  time  and  its  gross 
objects,  and  incapable  —  except  by  a  sort  of  dim  reflec 
tion  caught  from  other  minds  —  of  so  much  as  one  spir 
itual  idea.  Whatever  stain  Zenobia  had  was  caught 
from  him ;  nor  does  it  seldom  happen  that  a  character 
>f  admirable  qualities  loses  its  better  life  becaus^  the 
atmosphere  that  should  sustain  it  is  rendered  poisonous 
by  such  breath  as  this  man  mingled  with  Zenobia's 
Yet  his  reflections  possessed  their  share  of  truth.  It 
was  a  \vof"\  thought,  that  a  woman  of  Zenobia's  diver 


BLITHEDALE    PASTURE 

sified  capacity  should  have  fancied  herself  irretrievaoly 
defeated  on  the  broad  battle-field  of  l.fe,  and  with  no 
refuge,  save  to  fall  on  her  own  sword,  merely  because 
Love  had  gone  against  her.  It  is  nonsense,  and  a 
miserable  wrong,  —  the  result,  like  so  many  others,  of 
masculine  egotism,  —  that  the  success  or  failure  of 
woman's  existence  should  be  made  to  depend  wholly  on 
the  affections,  and  on  one  species  of  affection,  while 
man  has  such  a  multitude  of  other  chances,  that  this 
seems  but  an  incident.  For  its  own  sake,  if  it  will  do 
no  more,  the  world  should  throw  open  all  its  avenues  to 
the  passport  of  a  woman's  bleeding  heart. 

As  we  stood  around  the  grave,  I  looked  often  towards 
Priscilla,  dreading  to  see  her  wholly  overcome  with 
grief.  And  deeply  grieved,  in  truth,  she  was.  But  a 
character  so  simply  constituted  as  hers  has  room  only 
for  a  single  predominant  affection.  No  other  feeling 
can  touch  the  heart's  inmost  core,  nor  do  it  any  deadly 
mischief.  Thus,  while  we  see  that  such  a  being  responds 
to  every  breeze  with  tremulous  vibration,  and  imagine 
that  she  must  be  shattered  by  the  first  rude  blast,  we 
find  her  retaining  her  equilibrium  amid  shocks  that 
might  have  overthrown  many  a  sturdier  frame.  So 
with  Priscilla ;  —  her  one  possible  misfortune  was  Hoi- 
lingsworth's  unkindness;  and  thit  was  destined  nev  -r  to 
befall  her,  —  never  yet,  at  least,  —  for  Priscilla  has  not 
died. 

But  Houingsworth !  After  all  the  evil  that  he  did, 
are  we  to  leave  him  thus,  blest  with  the  entire  devotion 
of  ihis  one  true  heart,  and  with  wealth  at  his  disposal 
to  execute  the  long-contemplated  project  that  had  led 
him  so  far  astray?  What  retribution  is  there  here 


282  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE 

My  /nind  being  vexed  with  precisely  this  query,  1  mad? 
a  journey,  some  years  since,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
catching  a  last  glimpse  at  Hollingsworth,  and  judging 
for  myself  whether  he  were  a  happy  man  or  no.  1 
learned  that  he  inhabited  a  small  cottage,  that  his  way 
of  life  was  exceedingly  retired,  and  that  my  only  chance 
of  encountering  him  or  Priscilla  was  to  meet  them  in  a 
secluded  lane,  where,  in  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon, 
they  were  accustomed  to  walk.  I  did  meet  them,  ac 
cordingly.  As  they  approached  me,  I  observed  m  Hoi- 
ingsworth's  face  a  depressed  and  melancholy  look,  that 
seemed  habitual ;  —  the  powerfully-built  man  showed 
n  self-distn  stful  weakness,  and  a  childlike  or  childish 
tendency  to  press  close,  and  closer  still,  to  the  side  of  the 
slender  woman  whose  arm  was  within  his.  In  Priscilla 's 
manner  there  was  a  protective  and  watchful  quality,  as 
if  she  felt  herself  the  guardian  of  her  companion  ;  but, 
likewise,  a  deep,  submissive,  unquestioning  reverence 
and  also  a  veiled  happiness  in  her  fair  and  quiet  countf 
nance. 

Drawing  nearer,  Priscilla  recognized  me,  and  gave 
me  a  kind  and  friendly  smile,  but  with  a  slight  gesture, 
which  I  could  not  help  interpreting  as  an  entreaty  not  to 
make  myself  known  to  Hollingsworth.  Nevertheless, 
un  impulse  took  possession  of  me,  and  compelled  me  to 
address  him. 

**  I  have  come,  Hollingsworth/'  said  I,  "  to  view  yoiii 
grand  edifice  for  the  reformation  of  criminals.  Is  it 
finished  yet  ? " 

"No,  nor  begun,"  answered  he,  without  raising  hia 
eyes.  "  A  very  small  one  answers  all  my  purposes." 

Pnscilla    *hrew    me    an    upbraiding   glance.      But    I 


BLITHE DAi,E    PASTURE.  283 

ip^ke  again,  with  a  bitter  and  revengeful  emotion,  at>  •* 
flinging  a  poisoned  arrow  at  Hollingsworth's  heart. 

"  Up  to  this  moment,"  I  inquired,  "  how  many  crimi 
nals  have  you  reformed  ? " 

•'Not  one,"  said  Rollings  worth,  with  his  eyes  stil! 
fixed  on  the  ground.  "Ever  since  we  parted,  I  have 
been  busy  with  a  single  murderer." 

Ihen  the  tears  gushed  into  my  eyes,  and  I  forgave 
him ;  for  I  remembered  the  wild  energy,  the  passionate 
shriek,  with  which  Zenobia  had  spoken  those  words, — 
"  Tell  him  he  has  murdered  me !  Tell  him  that  I  '11 
haunt  him !  "  —  and  1  knew  what  murderer  he  meant, 
and  whose  vindictive  shadow  dogged  the  side  where 
Priscilla  was  not. 

The  moral  which  presents  itself  to  my  reflections,  as 
drawn  from  Ilollingsworth's  character  and  errors,  is 
simply  this,  —  that,  admitting  what  is  called  philan 
thropy,  wh^n  adopted  as  a  profession,  to  be  often  useful 
by  its  ener£etic  impulse  to  society  at  large,  it  is  perilous 
to  the  individual  whose  ruling  passion,  in  one  exclusive 
channel  it  thus  becomes.  It  ruins,  or  is  fearfully  apt  to 
ruin,  th^  heart,  the  rich  juices  of  which  God  never 
meant  should  be  pressed  violently  out,  and  distilled  into 
alcoholic  liquor,  by  an  unnatural  process,  but  should 
render  life  sweet,  bland,  and  gently  beneficent,  and 
insensibly  influence  other  hearts  and  other  lives  to  the 
same  blessed  end.  I  see  in  Hollmgsworth  an  exemplifi 
cation  of  the  most  awful  truth  in  Bunyan's  book  of  such ; 
—  from  the  very  gate  of  heaven  there  is  a  by-way  to 
the  pit ! 

But,  all  this  while,  we  have  beea  standing  by  Zenobia's 
.     I  have  never  since  beheld  it,  but  make  no  ques- 


2S4  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

tiun  that  the  grass  grew  all  the  better,  on  that  lithe 
parallelogram  of  pasture-land,  for  th*  decay  of  the  beau 
tiful  woman  who  slept  beneath.  How  much  Nature  seema 
to  love  us !  And  how  readily,  nevertheless,  without  a  sigh 
or  a  complaint,  she  converts  us  to  a  meaner  purpose,  when 
her  highest  one  —  that  of  conscious  intellectual  life  and 
sensibility  —  has  been  untimely  balked!  While  Ze 
nobia  lived,  Nature  was  proud  of  her,  and  directed  all 
eyes  upon  that  radiant  presence,  as  her  fairest  handi 
work.  Zenobia  perished.  Will  not  Nature  shed  a 
tear  ?  Ah,  no !  —  she  adopts  the  calamity  at  once  into 
her  system,  and  is  just  as  well  pleased,  for  aught  we 
can  see,  with  the  tuft  of  ranker  vegetation  that  grew  jut 
of  Zenobia's  heart,  as  with  all  the  beauty  whkh  has 
bequeathed  us  no  earthly  representative  except  in  this 
crop  of  weeds.  It  is  because  the  spirit  is  mest.mab  e 
•that  the  lifeless  body  is  so  little  valued. 


XXIX. 

AHLES  COVERDALE'S  CONFESSION 

IT  remains  only  to  say  a  few  words  about  myself. 
Not  improbably,  the  reader  might  be  willing  to  spare  me 
the  trouble ;  for  I  have  made  but  a  poor  and  dim  figure  in 
my  own  narrative,  establishing  no  separate  interest,  and 
suffering  my  colorless  life  to  take  its  hue  from  other 
lives.  But  one  still  retains  some  little  consideration  for 
one's  self;  so  I  keep  these  last  two  or  three  pages  for 
my  individual  and  sole  behoof. 

But  what,  after  all,  have  I  to  tell  ?  Nothing,  nothing 
nothing !  I  left  Blithedale  within  the  week  after  Zeno- 
bia's  death,  and  went  back  thither  no  more.  The  whole 
soil  of  our  farm,  for  a  long  time  afterwards,  seemed  but 
the  sodded  earth  over  her  grave.  I  could  not  toil 
diere,  nor  live  upon  its  products.  Often,  however,  in 
these  years  that  are  darkening  around  me,  I  remember 
our  beautiful  scheme  of  a  noble  and  unselfish  life ;  ano 
how  fair,  in  that  first  summer,  appeared  the  prospeci 
that  it  might  endure  for  generations,  and  be  perfected;  as 
the  ages  rolled  away,  into  the  system  of  a  people  and  a 
world  !  Were  my  former  associates  now  there,  — were 
vhere  only  three  or  four  of  those  true-hearted  men  still 
laboring  in  the  sun,  —  I  sometimes  fancy  that  I  should 
direct  my  world- weary  footsteps  thitherward,  and  en treal 


2S6  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

them  tc  receive  me,  for  old  friendship's  sake.  More  and 
more  I  feel  that  we  had  struck  upon  what  ought  to  bt  a 
truth.  Posterity  may  dig  it  up,  and  profit  by  it.  The 
experiment,  so  far  as  its  original  projectors  were  con 
cerned,  proved,  long  ago,  a  failure ;  first  lapsing  into 
Fourierism,  and  dying,  as  it  well  deserved,  for  this  infi 
delity  to  its  own  higher  spirit.  Where  once  we  toiled 
with  our  whole  hopeful  hearts,  the  town-paupers,  aged, 
nerveless,  and  disconsolate,  creep  sluggishly  a-field. 
Alas,  what  faith  is  requisite  to  bear  up  against  sad 
results  of  generous  effort ! 

My  subsequent  life  has  passed,  —  I  was  going  to  say 
wAppily,  —  but,  at  all  events,  tolerably  enough.  I  am 
i»o\v  at  middls  age,  —  well,  well,  a  step  or  two  beyond 
the  midmost  point,  and  I  care  not  a  fig  who  knows  it ! — 
a  bachelor,  with  no  very  decided  purpose  of  ever  being 
otherwise.  1  have  been  twice  to  Europe,  and  spent  a 
year  or  two  rather  agreeably  at  each  visit.  Being  well 
to  do  in  the  world,  and  having  nobody  but  myself  to  care 
foT,  I  live  very  much  at  my  ease,  and  fare  sumptuously 
every  day.  As  for  poetry,  I  have  given  it  up,  notwith 
standing  that  Doctor  Griswoid  —  as  the  reader,  of  course, 
knows  —  has  placed  me  at  a  fair  elevation  among  our 
minor  minstrelsy,  on  the  strength  of  my  pretty  little  vol 
ume,  published  ten  years  ago.  As  regards  human  pro 
gress  (in  spite  of  my  irrepressible  yearnings  over  the 
Blithedale  reminiscences),  let  them  believe  in  it  who  can, 
and  aid  in  it  who  choose.  If  I  could  earnestly  do  either, 
it  might  be  all  the  better  for  my  comfort.  As  Rollings- 
worth  once  told  me,  I  lack  a  purpose.  How  strange ! 
He  was  ruined,  morally,  by  an  overplus  of  the  very  same 
oigrelient,  the  want  of  which,  I  occasionally  suspect,  has 


MILES  COVERBALE'S  CONFESSION.  28"* 

rendered  my  own  life  all  an  emptiness.  I  by  no  mean* 
wish  to  die.  Yet,  were  there  any  cause,  in  this  whole 
chaos  of  human  stmgg]e,  worth  a  sane  man's  dying  for, 
and  which  my  death  would  benefit,  then  —  provided, 
however,  the  effort  did  not  involve  an  unreasonable 
amount  of  trouble  —  methinks  I  might  be  bold  to  offci 
up  my  life.  If  Kossuth,  for  example,  would  pitch  th* 
battle-field  of  Hungarian  rights  within  an  easy  ride  of 
my  abode,  and  choose  a  mild,  sunny  morning,  aftei 
breakfast,  for  the  conflict,  Miles  Coverdale  would  gladly 
be  his  man,  for  one  brave  rush  upon  the  levelled  bayo 
nets.  Further  than  that,  1  should  be  loth  to  pledge 
myself. 

I  exaggerate  my  own  defects.  The  reader  must 
not  take  my  own  word  for  it,  nor  believe  me  alto 
gether  changed  from  the  young  man  who  once  hoped 
strenuously,  and  struggled  not  so  much  amiss.  Frost 
ier  heads  than  mine  have  gained  honor  in  the  world ; 
frostier  hearts  have  imbioeu  new  warmth,  and  been 
newly  happy.  Life,  however,  it  must  be  owned,  has 
come  to  rather  an  idle  pass  with  me.  "Would  my 
friends  like  to  know  what  brought  it  thither  ?  There  is 
one  secret,  —  I  have  concealed  it  all  along,  and  never 
meant  to  let  the  least  whisper  of  it  escape,  —  one  foobsh 
little  secret,  which  possibly  may  have  had  something  to 
do  with  these  inactive  years  of  meridian  manhood,  \c,th 
my  bachelorship,  with  the  unsatisfied  retrospect  that  i 
fling  back  on  life,  and  my  listless  glance  towards  the 
future.  Shall  I  reveal  it  ?  It  is  an  absurd  thing  for  a 
man  in  his  afternoon,  —  a  man  of  the  world,  moreover, 
with  these  three  white  hairs  in  his  brown  mustache 
and  thai  deeoening  track  of  a  crow's-foot  on  each  tempi* 


2S8  THE    BLITHEDALE    ROMANCE. 

-  -  an  absurd  thing  ever  to  have  happened,  and  quite  the 
absurdest  for  an  old  bachelor,  like  me,  to  talk  about. 
But  it  rises  in  my  throat ;  so  let  it  come. 

I  perceive,  moreover,  that  the  confession,  brief  as  it 

hall  be,  will  throw  a  gleam  of  light  over  my  behavior 
throughout  the  foregoing  incidents,  and  is,  indeed,  essen 
tial  to  the  full  understanding  of  my  story.  The  reader, 
therefore,  since  I  have  disclosed  so  much,  is  entitled  to 
this  one  word  more.  As  I  write  it,  he  will  charitably 
suppose  me  to  blush,  and  turn  away  my  face :  — 
I  —  I  myself —  was  in  love  —  with  —  PRISCILLA  f 


END. 


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